Denial (20 page)

“It’s fine.” He flashes me a half smile. “Really. I’ve been through a lot worse.”

“What the hell is wrong with me?” I cry as I see the network of deep red claw marks on his back when he turns to walk away. Some of them brought blood.

He whips around. “Nothing! Stop it. Timeout’s over.”

“Like hell! I tore up your back!”

“You… Is that what’s going on? I was going to look when I got in my bedroom because it was burning so bad in the shower. I don’t remember that part either.”

“I—” My lips are trembling as a tear runs down my cheek. I’ve never actually injured anyone like that before, certainly not during sex.

“Maya?” Isaac closes the distance between us instantly, wrapping his arms around me. I hug him back, wondering if my hands are making his back sting as he kisses my forehead. “It’s okay.” His hands press into my jaws and lift my face to his. “Battle scars,” he whispers as his lips graze my cheeks. Then the tip of my nose. We’ve done this dance before. My breathing is heavy as he stares into my eyes, on the edge of saying something that he probably shouldn’t. “It was completely worth it.”

I almost kiss him but he holds me at bay. “Isaac.” His eyes roll back and his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t let go.

“This timeout is over, Maya.”

The awful noise that escapes my throat perfectly describes how it feels when he leaves me. It makes him pause, but he doesn’t turn around. I remember feeling like an animal last night, but I didn’t realize that I’d actually become one. That it was even possible. I assumed that I remembered the night perfectly, every detail seems so vivid when I close my eyes and let my mind wander. Obviously some things are missing.

When he comes back, Isaac is visibly surprised to see me standing there with an ice pack and some antibacterial ointment. Before I can even tell him to get his shirt off and sit down, he’s shaking his head and backing away.

“Timeout.”

“If you don’t use them sparingly, I’m taking them away,” he says sternly. “And then you’re really going to have a sore ass.”

“Then it’s not a timeout, Sir. But sit down anyway.”

“That isn’t how this works, Maya,” he laughs.

“You said this was about taking care of someone. Right now that someone is you.” I step towards him and his expression softens. “Please take your shirt off.”

The mask he wears fades away as he pulls his shirt over his head. Guilt keeps me from fully appreciating just how gorgeous his body is, even when marred. He
winces when I press the cold pack onto the bite, taking him by the wrist and guiding his hand to hold it in place. The claw marks aren’t as bad as they first looked, probably because the heat of the shower has faded. His shoulders and neck got it the worst, and I make sure to cover every little red pinprick with ointment.

I don’t even try to stop myself from kissing the rest. I feel his ribs expanding and contracting deeper and faster as I drag my lips up and down each place where I hurt him. My arms wrap around his waist and stroke his stomach. He takes one of my hands into his own, caressing each of my fingers individually.

I can’t believe I hurt him like this or why he seems completely fine with it. Probably because his life is so hellish that it’s not that unusual. I am not going to cry. Nobody wants pity.

My mouth travels up his spine until I’m on his neck, kissing and sucking, wishing he hadn’t washed so much of his taste away. His head sinks back into my shoulder and he lets out a moan, but then he stiffens ups in my arms. “Maya,” he gasps. “Stop.” I can’t obey him. “Please. Don’t make this any harder for me. I’m begging you.”

The best I can do for him is stay where I am, my lips pressed into his collarbone. I remain completely still as our breathing slows. This time he’s the one that makes a pathetic sound as I pull away.

“I’m sorry about that.” I put on my own mask as I step in front of him.

“It’s fine.” His eyes won’t meet mine, which is probably for the best.

I pull the ice pack off and spread a thin layer of ointment over the mark using a little pressure as possible. “I can’t believe I did this to you. I feel awful.”

He catches my hand as I pull away and presses his lips into my wrist. “I’d rather it be me than you,” he murmurs, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Well, you’d better not look at my nipples then.”

Eyes flying open, he drops my hand and finally meets my gaze. “Why do you say that?”

“They’re extremely tender. And kind of purple.”

“Lift your shirt up,” he orders. I blush, but I want to obey that voice. I don’t. “
Maya
.” I didn’t realize that a snarl could be friendly. “Lift your shirt.
Now
.” Now my eyes avert naturally, unable to face him, my cheeks burning as I do what he wants. “Fuck!” I yelp when his fingers make contact with my breasts. “Holy shit. Why didn’t you tell me about this when I asked if you were okay?”

“I thought you were asking about my…”

“Seriously, Maya?” he scoffs at my inability to say the word. “Fuck, Rookie. I’m sorry.” I wince as he softly touches the sore peaks.

“Are they going to make it?”

He breathes out a laugh. “Yes. It probably feels worse than it is. It looks like I bit you back a little. I don’t remember either.”

“It felt great at the time.” The silence is filled with our quickened breathing. “Sorry.”

“It’s not going to be easy to keep a lid on this, is it?”

I finally look at him and shake my head no. Eye contact was clearly a mistake because he’s pulling me into his lap and I’m letting him. It burns as his mouth makes contact with my nipples, but kisses are so tender and soothing. I thread my fingers into his hair, sinking lower into his lap as my body relaxes in his arms.

He pulls my shirt down and presses his forehead into my breastbone. If I see his face, I’ll kiss him, and not on the cheek, nose, or any other substitute. I know it and somehow I know that he does too. He tries to pull away but I hold him against me. “Not yet.” I beg. “Please just a minute longer.”

Every organ in my body feels the tortured groan he makes as it vibrates though my chest. His hands grip the back of my shirt as I clutch his face against my chest as hard as I can to keep it from lifting. My body is shaking as much as his. We aren’t moving, but it’s not getting any colder in here. Has that hold still and wait until we calm down trick lost effectiveness already?

His hands slide lower until he’s gripping my hips and pulling me down into his erection that I’ve been trying to ignore. Gasping, his head pops up out of my grasp and I’m looking into his incredible eyes. They widen as he grinds into me and right before my lips make contact with his I realized they’re filled with pain and then he lets out this guttural, agonized howl, the sort of sound that chills a person on an instinctual level.

I fly through the air and land on the soft couch. That wasn’t a normal it hurts to let you go sound. Tiny droplets of sweat cover his skin and his breaths are ragged groans. All of the color is gone from his face. It wouldn’t surprise me if he doubled over and puked right now. He hurt himself somehow. Physically. Now I really feel like shit.

“Isaac?” I don’t dare touch him.

“I’ll be fine.” Yet his knees buckle slightly as he stands. “I’m going to put some different clothes on.” The words are shaky and quiet.

“Did you just hurt yourself?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I can’t explain it right now.” I don’t press him because his voice is higher than normal and panicked. “Will you make some more ice packs? We need three.”

I can only find one more in the house. I’m making the other with a plastic bags and cloth napkin when he appears in front of me. Though he’s trying to hide it, the pain shows on his face as he slowly lowers himself on the couch.

“Get two glasses of water, please.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to say please.”

“It’s a goddamned timeout, Maya!” he hisses, but in a beat we’re both laughing. I bring the water first, then go back quickly for the packs. He pats the seat next to him and flicks on the television. There are three pills in front of my glass of water. I pick them up and look at him quizzically. “Ibuprofen. For swelling. Take them. No protests.”

I gulp them down, eager for relief. “Did you take any?”

“Yes,” he answers, taking a homemade icepack off the coffee table. “Hold the other two on your nipples.”

I can’t help but giggle until I see him wince as he places one of the packs on his crotch. “Isaac, did you…”

“Somehow manage to rip even more flesh off the head of my fucking dick? Yes, actually, I did.”

“Shit. Are you okay?”

“Genitals heal rather quickly.”

“Is it from last night?”

“Yeah, I was pretty chaffed. Okay, I’ve never been so raw in my life. But that stunt I just pulled to make it possible to pry myself off of you might have been overkill.”

“Isaac, I’m really sorry. That was my fault.”

“No it wasn’t. I started it when I pulled you into my lap.”

“But I—”

“I’m fine. Come here.” His arms wraps around my shoulders and pulls me against his side. “We can touch each other now that it’s physically impossible for me to feel arousal.”

He kisses my knuckles while he starts flicking through the channels for a while, stopping on a repeat of Planet Earth and I remember our shared secret that we both love wildlife documentaries and don’t typically like to admit it to other people.

I nuzzle into his shoulder, expecting him to stop me, but he doesn’t, instead rests his head against mine with his lips in my hair. After an hour of being engrossed in 60 inches of the shocking realism of the African savannah in high definition, my nipples are numb in a good way.

“Are you feeling any better, Maya?”

“Yes. What about you?”

“I’ll survive.”

“So I guess the timeout is over, huh.”

“That would be wise, don’t you think?”

My stomach tightens into a knot. “Yes, Sir.”

“There’s a list on the fridge of things for you to do. Pick whichever one you find the least offensive. We’ll start cooking in an hour or so.”

Well, laundry is definitely critical, so I’ll start there. After that, I decide to clean the already sparkling window so I can watch the city bustle and feel less like I’m trapped inside. When I’m done, I start to ‘organize’ the kitchen, even though it seems to be in perfect order as it is and I have no clue what most of these utensils are for.

The hour goes by quickly. I look up to see him staring at me as I wipe the stainless steel counters down for the third time. Our eyes meet and as much as I struggle to look away, it takes a few more moments that it should.

“That doesn’t count.”
Crap
. “Sir,” I add quickly. “I didn’t know you were watching me.”

“You don’t get to make that call.” He strolls into the kitchen. “But I’ll spare you that one on a technicality.”

1
7

Isaac is rifling through the cabinets, pulling out frying pans and other instruments of culinary destruction that gleam in the light as he lines them up on the counter. I feel like I should be doing something instead of standing here watching him gathering ingredients from the refrigerator and cupboards, but I’m at a total loss until he sets a cutting board in front of me and gestures toward a bag of onions.

“Do you know how to cut an onion properly?”

“No.” I make eye contact and forget the sir. “Crap.”

“I believe that’s strike five, Maya.”

“This really sucks, Sir.”

He laughs loudly. “You can’t just throw a ‘sir’ on the end of a statement like that and get away with it. Strike six.”

Allowing for way too much elbowroom, he sets up another board and takes his place next to me. “Just watch what I do and try to do the same.”

“Okay.” I wait for the sigh, but he lets it slide.

So you cut the ends off before you peel it. Huh. He cuts it in half. That was easy enough. The onion is slippery in my hands as I demonstrate my domestic inadequacies trying to peel it. Isaac waits patiently, his perfectly stripped onion judging me the entire time. By the time I’m done, mine riddled with nail marks from the struggle. Glancing towards my shaky progress, he cuts the half in half, but the stupid thing is so hard to hold I can’t watch him and I get lost.

“Why did you give me the difficult one, Sir?” I whine.

“The onion cuts itself if you let it.”

“Then my onion is as clueless as I am.”

“Maya,” he groans. “That’s strike—”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is!” he shoots back in a surprise.

“I’m not doing the submissive thing while we cook.”

“You’re—” He falters, eyes widening “Yes, you are.” He’s trying to keep up the serious Dom voice, but he’s failing.

“No.” I slap my knife down and stare at him defiantly, waiting until he finally looks at me. Before he can count off another strike I declare, “Timeout!”