I shut off my clit stimulator and slam it onto the bed before covering my eyes with the back of my arm. Tears of frustration prickle in my eyes.
Aaron has stolen so much from me.
Each time I’ve been turned on in the past few months—which has been pretty much every time Carson is home lately—I think maybe this will be it, this will be the time I finally come. Only, each time I’m on the precipice of climaxing, my mind floods with images from the night Aaron assaulted me.
So, like I said . . . I’m frustrated. And even after months of therapy, I’m pretty sure I’m broken, and I’ll never come again. Okay, that may sound a little dramatic . . . butcome on. A woman can only take so much.
Living with Carson Wilder has made the tiny spark that ignited inside of me when we first met erupt into formidable flames. Each smirk, each teasing joke, each innocent touch of our hands, each accidental press of our bodies, each unextraordinary moment all of a sudden feels monumental because of this building tension between us that is rising to an all-time high.
There are days where I worry I’ll spontaneously orgasm in the kitchen while we’re cooking together. Well, I’m typically doing the cooking while Carson stands there looking like my own personal snack.
Oh. My. God. Get a hold of yourself, Kota Lynn.
I’m starting to sound like an unhinged cougar. But Carson would make the best prey.
Knowing I need to finish packing, I huff a breath and drag myself out of bed. After I clean and put away my useless toy, I finish packing my weekender bag. It’s still April in Minnesota, so naturally, being the Texan I am, I packed for winter.
Once I’ve filled up my water bottle and put on my jacket, I grab my bag and head out to the garage to get into Carson’s truck.
After the accident, Carson got a new decked-out white Ford F-150 with black rims, and it’s as sexy as he is.
I notice it’s already started as I round the truck to get in the passenger side. But I freeze as soon as I open the door and see the state Carson is in.
He’s shaking uncontrollably, his face is coated in sweat, and he’s holding his chest with both hands while gasping for breaths.
“Carson,” I call out but I know he doesn’t hear me. He’s having a panic attack, and I need to talk him down.
“Carson, I’m here,” I tell him as I drop my bag and set my water bottle in the cup holder. “Listen to my voice,” I say before grabbing his hands in mine. “Feel the way your hands eclipse mine.” I pause, listening to the sound of his breathing begin to slow. “Look at me.”
He shakes his head. “Not like this,” he whispers.
Taking one hand from his, I place my fingers beneath his quivering chin and lift it so his glassy eyes meet mine. “You don’t have to fight this alone. I’m right here. Just like you were there for me.”
“I don’t understand why this is happening to me.”
“How many times have you had a panic attack?”
“I don’t know. Maybe half a dozen since the accident with Cadence? I used to get them infrequently after Katie’s death. Typically whenever I had a flashback to Mack being in the hospital or someone I loved got hurt. But these feel different—more intense.”
I take him in. Like really take him in. His shoulders are slumped, his hair is standing on end as if he’s been running his hands through it, and his cheeks are stained from the few tears that slipped free.
“Have you thought about seeing a therapist?” I ask.
Carson shakes his head and grips the steering wheel. “I can’t. The media would make a big spectacle of it. They’d make me out to be the weak rookie who can’t handle the pressure now that I’m in the big league.”
I rest my hand on his arm and give it a gentle squeeze. “Seeking help doesn’t make you weak, Carson. When we’re vulnerable enough to admit that we’re in our darkest hours, there is nothing more powerful than that. You allowing me to see this side of yourself doesn’t make me think any less of you. In fact, I see you now more than ever.”
At that, he turns his head and looks at me. “And what do you see?”
I stare back into his ocean eyes just as intently. “Everything. I see every beautiful piece of you, Carson. My therapist has taught me daily affirmations that have truly helped the way I see myself. Will you repeat after me? Will you let me show you with my words how I see you?”
“Yes.” He takes his hands off the wheel and turns his body toward me.
Taking his hands once again in mine, I say, “Repeat after me. I am kind. I am brave. I am strong. I am selfless.”
I watch and listen in earnest as this enigmatic man repeats each affirmation back to me.
“That was perfect. You did such a good job.”
