Ignoring the caving and knotting of my stomach, the uncomfortable dotting of perspiration under my arms, I scrape tooth and nail for normalcy.
“I see we’ve reached the threatening portion of our program,” I say.
“No threat necessary, ma.”
He stands, and I lock down my muscles to prevent myself from jackknifing to my feet along with him. That big body towering over me? Nah. We don’t do shows of intimidation over this way. But to follow through with that plan would also betray to what extent his display of dominance affects me. Either way, I’m fucked. And either way, I’m gotdamnaffected.
“That’s not—what the fuck are you doing?”
Shock damn near catapults me from the armchair. But it’s the same shock that chains me to the seat easier than lengths of hundred-pound iron chains. I can’t move. Can’t speak. Am afraid to even think past this moment that has no precedent to guide me so I don’t stumble into territory so full of land mines and disasters that there is no walking back.
In one moment, Asad stood in front of his chair, and in the next, he kneels before mine.
Asad.
Kneeling.
Before me.
My heart repeatedly slams against my chest in an attempt at a jailbreak. But I’ve lost all control over simple motor skills, so I can’t lift my hand to rub my knuckles over the spot to calm the panicked pounding.
Even in that position, his tall, wide frame seems to block out the study like the moon eclipsing the sun. I can’t see around him, above him. No, all I glimpse ishim. The range of his chest and shoulders, the corded neck with incongruously delicate pulse at the base. The thick, dark beard surrounding that wide, ridiculously lewd mouth that has no business on a man as hard as him. The startling silver eyes under black, dense eyebrows. The long, curly hair still pulled up in its bun, exposing every beautiful, brutal line of his face.
It’s too much.
It’s too much.
Fucking overload.
My breath slams back into me after being unable to draw a thin draft of air into my lungs, and it slices into me like a razor-edged scalpel. I’m halfway surprised I’m not drowning in my own blood.
“Back up. Get away from me.”
My low rasp of a voice trembles, and I don’t care. Survival has wrenched control of the wheel and pride has climbed in the backseat of this ride. Horror at his nearness, at the memories of the past, at the tightening and pinch of my nipples and the sharp, tugging ache high in my pussy… I’m angry, afraid, confused. And a deafeningtick, tickfills my head like the ominous countdown on a detonator.
If he doesn’t move, if he doesn’t grant me space that isn’t permeated with Creed cologne, cedarwood, and skin-warmed musk,I’ll blow up, leaving him splattered in my rage, my deceit, my hatred… my shameful, dirty need.
My fingers ball into fists, my nails digging into my palms. Fire licks at my skin. Sweat dots the valley between my breasts, my upper lip, and under my arms. A thin, pink-tinged film colors my blurred vision.
“Breathe, Ember.” Asad’s deep rumble sounds as if it’s traveled a long, hard night through a crowded tunnel. Yet, I clearly hear him. And feel the warm, mint-scented brush of his breath over my chin as he leans forward, his big palms clapping the sides of my face. He shoves his directly in mine, and my entire world becomes those beautiful and deadly gray eyes glaring down into mine. “You better breathe, because if you black out and swing on me, we gon’ be like Ike and Tina in that mu’fuckin’ limo up in here. In and out, ma. In and out. That’s it. With me,” he coaches. And as if my body is a sycophant to that terrible, irresistible voice, it follows his instructions.
“Focus, ma. Five things. Tell me five things you see.”
I frown. But when he gives my head a little but firm shake, I do as he says and focus.
“The desk. My grinder. Record player. Fireplace.Sticks and Stones.” I list the painting by Ernie Barnes that hangs above the mantel last.
“Good. Next. Four things you hear.”
I close my eyes, inhale a deep breath, and close everything out except for my sense of hearing.
“The central air clicking on. Your even breathing. The Pandora station I left on in my room. The chirping of birds…”
We continue the exercise with him guiding me, and by the time I get to one, the howling in my head quiets to a whispering wind. My heartbeat slows from a furious stampede to a gentle cadence. And the air in my lungs… It calms and follows his measured rhythm.
The rage grudgingly loosens its greedy grip on me, and I’m not peering at Asad through a watered-down crimson tint anylonger. As impossible as it should be, that unblinking, uncompromising stare grounds me in my own body, in the here and now. He’s both my trigger and my coping mechanism.
“I thought you had that IED shit under control. Are you still taking your medication?” he asks, hands still clamped around my cheeks. Muscled, solid stomach still pressed to my knees. Big body still knelt in front of me.