He loves me.
My hips lifted to his, faster and faster as we climbed toward release.
He loves me.
My fingernails dug into his back as I tried topress us even closer.
He loves me.
My back arched off the bed and a scream built in my throat.
When I exploded into my orgasm, I cried out so loudly I would have been embarrassed if Finn hadn’t been right there with me, yelling my name as he came. Together, we climaxed into a powerful, passionate release that I knew, for however long I lived, I’d never forget.
Afterward, Finn pulled me up to lie against his chest so he wasn’t crushing me or puttingany weight on my injuries. With his warm, strong arms wrapped around me, I was safe. I was loved. And I was happier than I could ever remember being.
“I love you too,” Iwhispered, smiling against his chest. His body went utterly still beneath mine, and I heard the breath catch in his throat at my words. One of his hands cupped my chin and he tilted my head back so I was able to see his face.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, staring into my eyes. “Because once you tell me you love me, that’s it, Bee. You’re mine. And I’m not ever giving you up.”
“Hmmm, well in that case….” I teased, grinning playfully up at him.
He didnotappreciate my joke; his face remained utterly serious as he waited for my answer.
“Oh, you idiot!” I smacked his arm. “Yes, I love you. Do I need to get it tattooed on my ass and sign a binding legal document, or will a verbal confirmationbe enough?” I rolled my eyes.
“You’re a smartass,” he said, grabbing my hips and settling me on top so I was straddling him. “But I love you anyway.”
I had just enough time to see that adorable dimple pop out in his right cheek before his lips were again on mine, so fierce it felt like he was branding me as his, and he was slipping back inside me.
***
“So, a lot has happened since our last session.”
Dr.Angelini’s normal tone of self-possession and composure was slightly ruffled today. I couldn’t really blame her, I supposed; it probably wasn’t every day that one of her patients divulged about a slew of recovered dream-memories, a near-fatal sexual assault in an alleyway, and a foray into a first-ever healthy romantic relationship – all in one sixty-minute session, I might add.
Just unloading all the details of everything that had happened in the last week had eaten up most of our time together. I wasn’t sure how much psychoanalyzing she could possibly get done intwenty minutes, but I didn’t peg the good doc as a quitter.
“How are you feeling about the attack?” she asked. “You mentioned you spoke with the police again this morning.”
“They say it’s not Gordon,” I shrugged. “And I don’t really know what I’m feeling. Is there a right emotion for this situation that Ishouldbe experiencing? Because, except for the hour right after it happened, when I cried, I’ve been feeling generally normal. I’m not scared to go out at night, or walk to my car alone. I don’t want to board up my windows and isolate myself for the next several decades with twenty-seven cats,” I explained. “I feel like me – just with some extra cuts and bruises.”
“There’s nosingular right or wrong emotion, Brooklyn. You don’t necessarily need to feel traumatized, simply because you’ve experienced a trauma.” Dr. Angelini stared at me across her pristine glass coffee table. I vaguely wondered how she kept it so clean; there wasn’t a coffee ring or a fingerprint smudge on the damn thing.
“Brooklyn, are you still with me?” Dr. Angelini asked, one eyebrow raised in question.
I nodded, forcing myself to stop the thought process concerning her Windex-ing habits and focus on her words. Theywerecosting me several hundred dollars per hour, after all.
“I think it’s also possible that, because this isn’t the first trauma you’veexperienced, you may be slightly desensitized to risky or potentially life-threatening incidents,” she continued.
“So I’m numb to danger,” I mused, miming karate chops in the air as I slayed invisible enemies. “Does that count as a super-power?”
“Brooklyn,” she scolded, her voice stern. “Please take this seriously.”
“I am! It was a joke,” I scoffed. She was overreacting, big time.
“Ido admit that your desensitization to trauma could be an asset in certain threatening situations, such as when you needed to defend yourself in that alley and keep your wits about you,” she explained.
I nodded, sensinga big “but” coming.