“I have no idea what that even means.”
“It means there’s a hell of a lot more to sex than a penis brings to the equation.” This could not be any more awkward. “You didn’t just pound away like a jackhammer. So things were…well, let’s just say you did everything right.”
His lips quiver. “So you like what I do with my mouth?”
I swallow, thinking of him there again, his tongue against my heat. “A little bit.” The words squeak out.
He draws me closer. “What about my fingers?”
Heat floods through me and I squeeze my thighs together again as the ache builds once more. “That too.”
His mouth moves along my throat. “Tell me what you want?” he whispers.
I close my eyes, letting the pleasure of his touch stroke over my skin. “You have too many clothes on.”
“Say, ‘I want you naked, Josh’,” he whispers.
It’s a game. Light, teasing words to take away from the seriousness of it all.
“I want you naked.” The words are almost lost in the haze of pleasure I get from his hands on my body.
“Josh.”
“Josh,” I repeat. My mouth is dry. “Can I touch you?”
“Yes please.”
He lifts the t-shirt over his head and I watch the glory that is his body twisting and arching.
I love his chest. The way the black ink contrasts sharply with the burnt cream color of his skin.
The sheet falls from my body and I lean forward, pressing my breasts to his chest, my hand against his hard, flat stomach. His skin is warm and rough against mine. He is still as I explore the sharp edges and planes of his body.
My hand slips lower, brushing against his hip bone. He catches me, halting my movement.
His grip on my wrist hurts.
And when I look up, it is not arousal looking back at me.
It is shame. It is sadness.
It is a thousand pieces of emotion looking back at me. “Don’t.”
A single word guts me. I know instantly what I’ve done. It hits me like a wall of disappointment.
He drops my wrist and sits up, turning away. The names on his back flex with the movement.
“Josh.” He does not respond. He reaches for his pants and yanks them on. “It’s okay.”
He rounds on me then. “No. It’s f*ck
ing not okay. It’s not o-f*ck
ing-kay that I can’t get a hard-on. It’s not f*ck
ing okay that you still want to reach between my legs for that useless piece of skin. It’s not f*ck
ing okay, Abby.”
I hold the sheet to my body. It is a useless shield.
“I thought I could do this.” The bitterness in his words slices at my heart. “I was wrong.”
He drags the rest of his clothing on.
I am mute. Unable to take back the hurt. Unable to fix it.
Unable to find the courage to ask him to stay. To fight…for us, for this thing we were trying to start.
In that moment, I hurt him. I reminded him of everything he cannot do, even after I told him it didn’t matter.
And there is no way I can make it up to him. No way to end the offense I didn’t mean to cause.
And his silence makes it worse. I want him to rail at me. To tell me how f*ck
ed up it is that I assumed I could fix what doctors could not.
I slip from the bed, removing myself from the offense. Shame crawls heavy and dark across my skin as he dresses in heavy silence.
And my heart breaks into a thousand pieces when the door closes behind him. Leaving me alone.
And hurting.
Just like always.
Chapter 20
Josh
I had to go. I had to leave and get away from the strange disappointment in her eyes when she realized that no, I wasn’t going to magically get a hard-on.
It hurt. It f*ck
ing hurt.
I knew it would. I knew we wouldn’t be able to do this.
That I wouldn’t be able to do this. I could f*ck
her six ways from Sunday with my mouth, my fingers or any of a thousand different things and it still wouldn’t be enough.
And it hurts.
I default back to what I’m good at. Drinking and fighting. Except that Eli isn’t at The Pint tonight. Which is strange because he's always here. It's his bar.
And now I really need to know what the hell is going on.
But Caleb is there and he’s drinking hard and this is not good. Caleb drunk on a good day isn’t easy to deal with.
Where the hell is Eli?
No, this is not f*ck
ing good at all.
"Funny thing about war," Caleb says as he tosses back his shot. "It's never really over."
I watch him pour another shot, feeling helpless and weak and f*ck
ing impotent. Just like always.
There's no reason to pry. It'll come out if he wants to talk. Otherwise, I'm just there to keep him from drinking alone. Because for some reason, getting hammered together is functional and okay. Getting plowed alone in a bar is something only people with problems do. At least, that's what the Army always told us in every f*ck
ing safety briefing and death-by-PowerPoint slide show on suicide awareness.
I don't miss the endless briefings. Not by a long shot.