Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (32 page)

I
love the way she looks at me.

Renata
wants me.

Damned
if I know why anyone would want me, especially someone as perfect as she is.
Yet, she does.

Until
this moment, I never realized how much I want to be wanted. I want to be needed
by her as much as I need her.

My
erection
hardens even further, which seems almost impossible at this
point. I'm throbbing just thinking about it.

“When you tore
my buttons?” I say, in a voice I barely recognize as my own. It's breathy and
harsh with lust. I can hear my own ragged breathing.

“If I live to be
a hundred, that is one moment of my life that I’ll never,
ever
forget.”

“Owning our story can
be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it.

― Brené Brown

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Thanks to our
‘Truth
or Dare’
card game, I’m now down to wearing only my panties. Grant is—
praise
the Lord
—totally naked.

Since the moment
I met him, I’ve been fantasizing non-stop, imagining what he looks like without
his clothes. Believe me, I’m not in the least disappointed.

Grant’s big sexy
body, his fascinating tattoos and his dark compelling eyes are such turn-ons.
I’m aroused by the masculine scent of him, his soft Texas drawl, his slow, deep
voice and the well-considered things he says.

The man utterly
captivates me, especially when he smiles. Kind and courteous, he’s a Southern
gentleman through and through. I love everything about him, even his flaws.

Just the thought
of Grant and his powerful
maleness
makes me damp with desire.

I was worried
about how to move forward with him, but our little card game has been such a
fantastic icebreaker, full of sexual tension and flirty fun. We’re finding out
so much about each other and now we’re both almost completely naked.

‘Truth or
Dare,’
as a prelude to sex—especially for someone with Grant’s history, is
a perfect idea—if I do say so myself.

So far, Grant’s
discovered my longing to visit Paris, my wish to meet UN Women Goodwill
Ambassador, Emma Watson, and I’m a Libra—my birthday is October 3rd.

I now know
Grant's favorite color is green, his first childhood crush was on Annabeth (a
girl in grade school who never even knew he existed), and he’s a Gemini, born
June 1
^st
. He says he’s never been in love.

“Truth,” I say,
after losing the last card toss with a seven of diamonds to Grant’s ten of
spades.

Grant’s chest
rises as he sucks in a deep breath. “Have you ever worked as a prostitute?” he
asks.

I burst out
laughing at his question—more from surprise than humor. It’s obvious that he’s
been working up the nerve to ask me that one.

“Why would you
think that? Because I lived on the street as a teenager?”

“Yes,” he
replies. His cheeks tinge pink with embarrassment, but he doesn’t look away
from me or show any other form of discomfort. “Every prostitute I’ve gone to
worked the streets.”

I tilt my head,
studying him for a few beats and smile. “My, my, I sense a story. First, the
answer is no. I’ve never worked as a prostitute. However, I have had sex with
many. I know for you, sex has largely had negative connotations. For me it’s
always been a playful, loving connection. It’s the most fun you can share with
someone you like.”

“I’m sorry I
asked you that,” he says apologetically.

“Don’t be. I'm
not offended. It’s a valid question. So… um… are you going to tell me about the
prostitutes or do I have to use a ‘Truth’ question for that?”

He averts his
gaze, studying the gently moving curtains in his open window for a long silent
minute.

“Childhood…” he
stops, clears his throat and then starts again, “Events in my childhood made me
think I was a monster. These events… um, they turned me off sex. I’ve never
dated or had a relationship with a woman.”

He pauses, meets
my eyes and adds, “I’ve only ever experienced sex with prostitutes… and now
with you.”

Chin up, Grant
stares at me as if in challenge. Is he waiting for condemnation, perhaps?
There’s a small flare of anxiety in his eyes. Does he expect my disapproval?
I’ll bet he’s worried I’ll judge him—but he hopes I won’t.

“Wow,” I say,
allowing genuine awe to fill my voice. “Thank you for telling me that, Grant.
I'm honored you shared that with me. I have the deepest respect for you. In
fact, my opinion where you’re concerned couldn’t be higher.”

Grant shows no
reaction and he says nothing more. Have my words affected him at all?

It’s when he’s
entirely unemotional like this that I worry. I wish I knew what was going
through his mind. Does he think confiding in me was a mistake? Is he worried
that admitting imperfection is a sign of weakness? Maybe he’s like me and
simply cannot accept a compliment.

“Disclosing a
difficult truth takes real courage,” I tell him. “Only the strongest among us
are willing to risk that kind of personal exposure. You’re not a weak man, are
you? And you’re certainly no coward.”

His lips part
and his eyebrows rise. OK,
now
I can see I’ve surprised him.

I frown. “What?
Did you think I’d despise you?”

“It was a
possibility.”

“Fucking hell,”
I curse vehemently. “In the scheme of things, meeting your needs with
prostitutes is no big deal. Now, raping someone—that is something I would judge
you for. You’d need to make amends to the victim and go to jail for doing
something like that. You haven’t molested anyone, have you?” I ask. I don’t see
that kind of behavior as remotely possible in him, but still…

His face
instantly tightens—there’s true rage behind his eyes. “Prostitutes,” he snaps,
shooting his reply back to me faster than a pitcher in major league baseball
game. “I always use prostitutes and I pay them well.”

Grant may have
been a victim at one time, but not anymore. His body is taut, his fists clench.
Something raw and violent radiates behind his no-nonsense glower. No matter
what happened to Grant as a child, he absolutely won’t take shit from anyone
ever again.

He’s trying to
hide it to some degree, but my question has enraged him.

I hate
confrontation and angry people frighten me. My adrenaline spikes at Grant’s
fury, but he doesn’t really scare me. Why is that? André would probably call it
female intuition.

For whatever
reason, I
know
Grant would never hurt me.

I can’t help but
admire his ability to vehemently reject something with which he doesn’t agree.
How does he do that? I’m afraid to hurt or embarrass people. Rejection kills me
and I have a pathological craving for love and acceptance. Thanks to André, I
know my own brand of crazy. To a large degree, I’m able to work around this
shit.

Pissed off,
Grant glares at me. “I don’t have sex with any woman I don’t pay for,” he says
in a controlled, edgy tone. “I pay André and he pays you. Otherwise, I would
never have had sex with you.”

I laugh because
I think he’s just called me a hooker. The insult amuses me, who knows why?

“Did you just
call me a prostitute?” I ask.

Any trace of
anger leaves as his face whitens. “I… no, I didn’t mean—”

“Forget it,” I
interrupt. “I’m not offended. Honestly. When a person gets something for
nothing, they don’t appreciate it—that’s what André says. It’s why he charges
the
really
big bucks. But I’d work with you, Grant, even if André wasn’t
paying me. You’re a good man who deserves my help. On top of that, I care about
you… I care about you
a lot
.”

Disbelief, hope,
shock, uncertainty—a flood of complex emotions flash across his face, too fast
to clearly follow.

As is often the
case, he shuts down completely while he processes these ideas.

I wonder who
hurt him so deeply? A member of his church? A trusted teacher? A close friend
of the family? Perhaps a ‘kind’ and doting uncle?

Whoever it was,
the asshole really did a number on him. I
know
that Grant sincerely loved
the guy. I can tell because of the way he doubts himself.

Grant doesn’t
have faith in love.

I won’t ask him
who destroyed the innocence of his childhood—even though I really want to know.
In time he’ll confide in me, but only when he’s ready to do so.

Grant equates
intimacy with guilt,
‘I did bad’
and humiliation
‘I’m so embarrassed
and ashamed of myself because I am bad’.
Talk about trust issues.

He’s like a
determined boxer taking on the reigning champion in the ring. The man weaves
and ducks around the subjects of love and sex as if he’s in a battle for his
life. It’s painful to watch him struggle.

I don’t want him
to fight me.

I want him to
love me.

The unconscious
thought blasts through my mind and surges into my awareness.
I’m a terrible
person! I shouldn’t be thinking of myself.
I clear my throat.

Focus on him.
Be in the present. Be the counselor. This is not about you.

“Listen, Grant,”
I say calmly. “We all do whatever we need to do. Your coping strategy of buying
sex wasn’t cruel or detrimental to others. When people can’t talk about things,
or if they can’t effectively deal with their issues, they find different ways
to get by. I was no exception.”

I think about
the ‘people-pleasing’ mouse I’ve been all my life and how my self-esteem has
been tied up in rescuing others. I’m not happy or fulfilled unless I’m needed.
Yet no matter what I do, a voice inside me whispers that it’s all a mistake. My
mother and my brother are dead. I should have saved them. I don’t deserve to be
happy.

Grant considers
my words for a long, quiet moment.

He nods. “André
told me all people, whatever they’re doing, no matter how crazy or irrational
it seems, it is how they need to act—from their perspective.”

“Exactly,” I
agree.

His lips curve
and we smile at each other as we both can relate to this perfect truth.

“I’ve still got
a long way to go myself, Grant. Progress, not perfection, right?”

“Right,” he
says, but his smile doesn’t last long. Abruptly, he frowns and looks away.

“What? What is
it?” I ask.

“You said only
the strongest among us are willing to risk personal exposure.”

“Yes.” I say.
“It’s about honesty—André goes on and on about it. He says
everyone
should find someone they trust. If an individual doesn’t reveal themselves—if
they don’t tell their personal story, they’ll
never
know the joy of
sharing a true connection with another.”

His gaze locks
on mine.

His look is so
intense, I find myself holding hold my breath.

“I had far too
much shame to talk to anyone until I met André,” he begins. His gaze moves
toward the window once more and he doesn’t speak for a long silent moment. “I
could never tell anyone
anything
before him, and now I can with you.”

“Oh?” I murmur
softly.

Face composed,
Grant’s body is stiff, his fists clenched. I sense vast wells of emotion
emanating from this private, self-contained man.

I have no idea
what he’s trying to say.

He turns toward
me, pinning me motionless with his eyes. “Renata, the only reason I can be
strong is because of you,” he says, his voice low and compelling. “You listen
and you understand. You don’t judge me. It isn’t hard to be brave when I’m
sharing things with you.”

Now it’s my turn
to be silent and to look away.

I simply cannot
meet his gaze.

My pulse kicks
and my heart is so full of love and joy I’m afraid I might burst into tears. I
don’t think I can speak—my throat is too tight.

Minutes pass as
I regain my composure.

“That’s the
nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I finally tell him. “Thank you, Grant.”

“You’re
welcome.”

His sexy slow
smile totally melts me. I’m so completely crazy about this guy. Intelligent and
confident, yet also troubled, insecure and alone—Grant needs my help. He needs
me.
I suppose that’s a somewhat insane criteria for falling in love, but there you
have it.

Scars and all, I
still find him the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.

It’s time to get
off these emotional ‘mind’ and ‘spirit’ subjects. Tonight is about the pleasure
of the body. With that thought, I lower my eyes so my gaze falls on to his
erect shaft.

Grant sees where
I’m looking. Eyes alight with amusement, he shakes his head as if I’m a lost
cause—which I most certainly am.

The man’s
indomitable dick has been hard for hours. Even this difficult conversation
hasn’t lessened his cock’s mindless enthusiasm. Lust…need… the man wants me.

That’s good
because I burn for him too.

I recall the
instant I first saw him naked. He’d stood up to remove his brown leather belt
on a dare, and I nearly burst into flames with desire and anticipation. The
sexy sound of him lowering his zipper ratcheted up my arousal.

When he finally
removed his boxers, I just about lost it.

I took one look
at that big, beautiful cock of his, raised my hands in the air and shouted,
“Hallelujah! There
is
a God!”

We’d both
cracked up, bursting into uncontrollable laughter—which was the idea, of
course. I hoped to lighten the mood and break the tension. I want Grant to form
new associations. I need him to discover that sex is
fun.

Tonight, we’ve
mostly been laughing our asses off. This is a lighter side of Grant, an
easygoing side when he’s not burdened by shame or crushed by the weight of his
terrible past.

Unfortunately,
it’s impossible to escape from one’s past.