“Thank you,” I reply. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”
That’s an understatement. I’m practically drooling at the sight of him in a navy blue V-neck sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing his corded forearms. He’s paired it with light-wash jeans and black motorcycle boots.
“Want a ride?”
I raise a brow, smirking at him.
“To class.” He feigns shock. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Grady.”
Laughing, I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder. “Yes, I’d love a ride…to class. Thank you.”
I stretch onto my toes and kiss his cheek before heading out the door.
* * *
We’ve been cuddled up on the couch, watching a movie until I make the mistake of kissing Eamon. One thing leads to another and I’m on my back with my legs wrapped around his waist as he sucks on my neck. He rocks into me, his cock hard and pressing the seam of my jeans into my clit. I moan in response, angling my hips to add more pressure. Taking that as the encouragement it’s meant to be, he slips a warm hand over my exposed stomach towards my breasts, and as soon as he cups one of them, I freeze. He immediately senses the switch and crawls off of me.
Growling in frustration, I bury my face in my hands. My stupid, traitorous body and its trauma responses ruin everything. I want this man. I want to touch him and for him to touch me. But the moment his hands are on me, my body locks up and that familiar panic starts to set in. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he won’t hurt me, so why can’t my mind and body get on the same page?
“I’m sorry, Eamon,” I mutter, ashamed of myself.
“Norah, look at me.”
Peeking through my fingers, I see him sitting across from me on the coffee table, elbows resting on his knees and hands clasped together. He’s so beautiful. Even after all of that, I still want nothing more than to touch him. With measured movements, he lifts his hands and gently grasps my wrists, prying my fingers from my face.
“You don’t need to apologize, love. I know this is hard for you. I’m not in a hurry,” he says softly.
“But I want this with you.” My eyes prick with tears so I squeeze them tight.
“We have all the time in the world. I’m not going anywhere,” he tells me softly.
The sad part is that I’m the one that’s in a hurry. I’m the one who’s ready to have a fully physical relationship with Eamon.
“Can we just…try that again?” I ask, slipping my hands into his. “But slower? Like glacially slow? Maybe if my mind and body have time to adjust together, I won’t freeze up.”
Eamon inhales deeply as his eyes search mine. What does he see in them? Is it fear? Desperation for intimacy? Or maybe he sees how badly I want to heal. Finally, he nods and stands, pulling me to my feet with him.
“Come on. I have an idea,” he says, leading me toward the front door.
“Where are we going?”
I’m not sure if he remembers what we were doing before I panicked, but it wasn’t appropriate anywhere but behind closed doors.
Ushering me onto the front porch, he all but drags me to his car. I climb into the front seat when he opens the door for me and watch as he lopes around to the driver’s side. Once he’s in, he turns the ignition and backs out of the drive.
“Eamon, where are we going?” I ask again, completely confused.
“You said you wanted to go glacially slow, so we’re going dancing.”
Dancing? What does he mean we’re going dancing? And how the hell is that supposed to help?
“Um. Explain please.”
“The whole point of us taking things slow is so you’re used to my touch, aye?” He glances over at me with questioning eyes.
“Yes?”
“Dancing requires close proximity and touch, but we’ll be in a public place. All the times you’ve started to panic, it’s because we’ve been secluded. Nobody else was around. My thoughts are that after your attack, being alone with a man is what triggers your fight or flight response.”
