Page 5

“Maybe this week’s session doesn’t have to be your last.” Braxton eyes me cautiously.

I turn away, trying to hide my humiliation. Claiming I’d been cured, only to fall into a full-blown relapse just a few moments later, leaves me feeling deeply embarrassed.

“Okay,” I say, feeling even worse when I see how worried I’ve made him. “No quick fixes, no rushing toward a conclusion. I promise.”

“Tasha—” Braxton’s voice is edged with concern. “It’s not about me—it’s foryou.I just want to see you feeling whole again, safe in the world. I see Dr. Lucy sometimes, too, you know. There’s no shame in it.”

“I guess we each have our nightmares.” I sigh, hoping to put an end to it, when I’m struck by a telling sting at the back of my eyes. And I quickly lower my chin, blinking away the threat of tears until I’m sure it’s passed for good.

After years of taking care of my mom and putting my own needs aside in the struggle to fill all of hers, it’s been a big adjustment for me to get used to being cared for, looked after, in the way Braxton cares for and looks after me. And the truth is, while I’ve gotten so much better at sharing my feelings and being open to his, there are also times when his big-hearted displays knock me so sideways, I have to fight the urge to push him away.

For so many years, being alone felt safe. Even now, despite all the self-work I’ve done, there’s still a shadowy part of me that insists I don’t deserve Braxton’s affections—that I’m not the sort of girl worth sticking around for.

Of course, somewhere deep down inside, I know it’s not true. But it’s not always enough to stop that persistent voice of gloom.

A long stretch of silence swells like an ocean between us until I finally lift my chin, level my gaze on his, and breach the quiet by saying, “Iwillfeel safe again. Someday soon, I’m sure. But for now, I was hoping you could remind me just exactly where we left off.”

I attempt a sexy grin, but it feels so awkward on my face, I’m sure I’ve fallen short. Still, what I lack in skill I make up for in determination, and I push away from the headboard and lean closer to him until my fingers are grazing the bold curve of his biceps.

There was a time when I used to make out with random boys in a quest to escape the monotony of my life.

Am I doing that now?

Seeking physical affection as a way to avoid real emotions and a hard conversation?

Maybe.

Probably.

For me, intimate conversations always feel like a much bigger risk than an intimate act.

But I also know what I want. And right now, I want Braxton.

My fingers trail up his arm, and while I know he wants me, too, there’s no mistaking the tightening of his jaw, the stiffening of his spine, or the way he holds himself in check, refusing to fully give in.

“Darling,” he says, his brow slanting, lips pulling into a frown. “You don’t have to—”

But I don’t let him finish. I have something to prove, partly to him, but mostly to me. I need to show us both that we can enjoy a romantic moment without the duke constantly intruding.

“It’s fine,” I say, practically begging him to believe it so that maybe I’ll believe it as well. “Really. It was just a glitch. It won’t happen again.”

My hands slide over his shoulders as I lay claim to his mouth. My tongue playfully nudging until he opens to me, to the kiss, to the unspoken promise to come.

A low groan sounds deep in his throat as he pulls me closer and kisses me so thoroughly that all traces of the duke are long gone. Then, he slides us both down the mattress, centers my body over his, and wastes no time reclaiming my mouth, my neck, the lobe of my ear. His lips leave a tingling trail in their wake that sets my body aflame.

“This,” I whisper, conforming my body to the hard contours of his. “This is exactly what I want.” I sink my teeth into his shoulder, biting playfully but still leaving a faint, crescent-shaped mark.

All this and then some more. So. Much. More.The words trill through my head, but I don’t speak them. I’d much rather show than tell.

There’ve been so many nights when we’ve kissed for what feels like forever—wearing ourselves out with the searing scrape of our tongues, the sweet sweep of our fingers exploring each other. We’ve done all we can to take it slow—to build a solid foundation of comfort and trust. But now it feels like time to move on to… Well, everything else.

And I know he feels the same. I can feel it in the feverish roll of his hips, the urgent brush of his thumbs as they slide under my camisole, along the crook of my waist, where they pause at the curve of my breasts.

I press a palm to his chest and angle myself to his side so I can drag my gaze down the length of him, tracking my hand as it skims along the muscled valley of his abs, drawing a slow circle just south of his navel that sets his heart drumming so hard I can feel the pulse of it under his skin.

Then I inch my hand lower.

And then lower still.