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boss-level move

Ayla

He pistons with such force, I move up the bed with every thrust. The movement is so powerful, my body recedes back each time he withdraws. I wonder how I can be so aroused, so wet, so into this.

This isn’t rough sex. We’ve done rough. This is angry, bordering on violent. The hot hand at my throat presses from the hollow at the base of my neck to my chin.

I lose air. My head is too light, and my vision tunnels in at the corners as darkness creeps in. I see stars and not from my orgasm.

I can’t see. I can’t breathe.

“Strangle my cock with your pussy, Princess. Strangle my cock while I strangle you.”

I wake with a start and a gasp. My insides are frozen from fear while my skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. My hand flies to my throat, and I pull measured, deep breaths, grateful for them.

A shiver runs from my head, slithering its way to my toes.

“Did you have a nightmare, baby, or are you cold?” Christian’s rough voice reaches me at the same time his arm falls over me, tugging me back into his wide chest.

I don’t say a word and fight my body not to stiffen in fear. Alerting him won’t help me a bit. I force myself to melt into his body and nod in hopes that he’s already fallen back to sleep.

I, on the other hand, do not.

What the hell kind of dream was that? Where in my mind did that come from? And why is it still so memorable when I’m so very awake?

After a short snooze, Christian leaves the bed and showers.

He drops an extra blanket on me in my feigned sleep and kisses my forehead.

“Sweet dreams, Princess.” The snick of the door latch closing grants me permission to reach up and palm my neck.

I know better than to do too much. The damn cameras are everywhere. Well, almost everywhere.

But, in this moment, I hold my throat and try to redeem the touch. The one that was too much. The one that’s beginning to feel less and less like a dream.

“Tell me why you feel now is the right time for therapy. And what do you hope to gain from our time together?”

I uncross my legs and recross them, watching the toe of my shoe bounce and wiggle. My pants are too formal, too proper, but I thought jeans would set the wrong tone for these meetings.

“I’ve got to stop letting my dad’s expectations drive decisions.” I say aloud from my chair in Joanie Jacaruso’s office

“That’s our goal, then? To free you to live without that burden?”

“Yes. And no.” I interlace my fingers and look her in the eye. “I’m a jeans and sweatshirt kind of girl. I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t taking this seriously. So, this—” I sweep my hands from shoulders to the heels on my feet. “This was so you’d think I’m serious about therapy.”

I hold her eyes and continue after she smiles her gentle assurance.

“I’m serious about therapy. I’m serious about being well.

But my goal and my need for our time is more than my dad, though I wouldn’t argue with being free of his expectations and his control.

Hell, I’d welcome that. But the pressing need, the real reason I’m here is?—”

Do I say this out loud? Can I give voice to these fears?

Once it’s out, I cannot reel it back in.

I take a deep breath and let it out on a whoosh. My eyes close, and I steel my spine for what I must say. “I can’t rule out that my husband is a danger. I think he’s trying to kill me. I think he’s tried more than once.”

There.I said it.It’s out there.

And no one who knows the old me will try to refute it or downplay it.

“And, if that’s not bad enough, I have amnesia from a ‘fall’ which I’m questioning was a fall at all.” I sketch air quotes with my fingers. “So, I have blacked out patches in my memory and can’t piece together previous events. But I’ve had what I think are flashbacks. And none of them are good.”

I stop. I hold my posture and wring my fingers together before dropping them in my lap and lifting my gaze to hers.

Before she can speak, I add. “And I’m not crazy.

I’m not here for attention. I don’t need to spend money for a friend so I can weave a tale.

I’m genuinely worried and need someone impartial.

Someone who won’t assume the worst of me or him…

I need someone to call me on it when I’m wrong and to stand beside me when I’m right.

Not blindly trusting like my brothers, or skeptical like my parents, or motivated like my husband. Can you do that?”

She visibly relaxes and does something so foreign to me.

She uncrosses her legs, spreading them just far enough that her knees are nearly the width of the chair, and drops her elbows to them as she stares at me.

“I knew when Jessi sent you over you were good people. I didn’t know how much I’d enjoy you until just now.

I can absolutely do that. I can’t say it’ll be quick, or it’ll be easy, but we’ll get you there.

I need two things from you, though, to keep my end of this relationship.

The first is your word that if you’re ever in danger, you’ll commit to telling me.

The second is that if that ever gets to a place where I must—and this isn’t something I relish doing—that I have permission to contact the authorities in order to protect you.

I will not violate any confidence with you unless I think your life is in danger. Can you do that?”

Throwing my words back at me is a boss-level move. I like it. “Yes. So, when do we begin?”

Apparently now is not too soon and we spend the rest of the hour discussing my brothers of all things. That works for me because I love them and they make me happy. Liam and Cian are safe havens, pains in my ass, and my ride-or-dies. So, yeah, I’m happy to chat about them.

All in all, my first therapy session is easier, albeit stranger, than I expect. There’s no laying on a couch. No notebooks and hmms and ahs . Just two women delving into family dynamics, committed to my health and wholeness.

Me: You were right. Joanie is amazing. Thanks for the reference.

Jessi: She’s amazing for sure. {heart emoji}

Me: {blowing kiss emoji}

My load is lighter by the time I get home. There’s a spring in my step, and when I step through the doors, Corinne greets me just after the smell of something lush. She has a spread on the table and gives me a pat on the shoulder as she leaves.

“Dessert is in the warming drawer. Have a good evening.”

Oh, how the other half live.

Christian meets me in the breakfast room, grabbing the chair next to mine. This formal dining room stuff has to change. I get it—money and all that, but that doesn’t make us pretentious, old, and stuffy. A formal dining room is all of those things in spades

“How was your day? What did you do?”

I can’t hesitate. It’s like I know better. “I found a therapist. I’m struggling with all this.” I swirl a finger around my temple but open up the palm to swirl around my whole head.

“And do you like him? Her? Can you tell me about it?”

“Her name is Joanie, and she’s a ball buster.

” I pause. “In the best way, of course. I was referred to her. I need someone to help me sort out the tangle of knots and, while I have you and Halley and my family, I need someone who doesn’t know me…

before. I need someone to listen without pity.

More so, I need someone to listen without anticipation.

She’s with me where I am—in the unknown, sorting it out. ”

“Sounds really good.” He loops an arm over my shoulder, giving me a squeeze, before releasing and going back to his Greek stuffed peppers. “She’s a psychologist?”

“I think she’s a counselor, not a doctor. I’m not looking for a prescriber. I still have the other one. I need—” I huff a laugh. “Hell, I need an archaeologist. And she seems up to it.”

“I like her for you.”

Curious answer, but all right.

“I’m, um… I’m going to go out this week and get some shots. I need the mountain air, the breeze, the warmth of the sun. And I need to sit in that silence and watch the light.”

His face goes serious. “When are we going?”

I turn in my chair toward him, choosing a posture carefully. “Not we. Just me. I need some semblance of pre-fall Ayla.”

“It’s not safe.” His gaze goes to my temple and the scar that’s still bubbly and red there. “I’m not okay with it.”

I place a hand on his shoulder closest to me. It’s the non-injured one and I cup my hand there. “I appreciate that, but I’m not okay with not being able to live?—”

“We agree on that,” he interrupts forcefully.

I squeeze and release his shoulder only to have him catch my hand. “No risk or low risk. Just me and my camera and daylight. I—” I look away but return my gaze. “I don’t need your permission and I don’t have to tell you. I’m going, Christian.”

The squeeze at my hand is more forceful than needed. It’s gone quickly, as is my husband. He stands, drops his napkin on the table, and stalks from the room.

Great. I’m left with only my thoughts for the rest of the meal. I bought the silent treatment from the brooding, angry man, who I’m apparently hellbent on pissing off.