When he sits down on the edge of my bed the mattress sinks a little under his weight.
And then I feel his hands on the top of my back, and hepushes his thumbs into the spot where my shoulders meet the bottom of my neck.
He kneads the tension above my shoulder blades and instantly it’s like something is melting away from me.
His hands are very strong.
It’s already the best massage I’ve ever gotten.
He’s wordless as he works the knots out of my shoulders, slowly and steadily pushing circular motions into the tense muscle.
Nobody’s ever touched me like this other than professionals who I’ve paid.
Rayne massages me for a long time, and I’m transported to another world. A world where things like this are normal for me. Where people care for me, and I don’t push back or protest or wonder about their intentions.
When he finishes, he pushes my body toward the wall a little.
Then I feel him lying down in my bed, right up against me, wordlessly.
“If you didn’t just lull me into relaxation I would choke your throat right down into this mattress, without hesitation,” I murmur.
“I believe you.”
I’m still facing away from him, but the side of his body is pressed up against my back. This bed isn’t that wide, and the heat of his skin against mine feels good in the cool air.
Physical contact, bringing be back into reality.
Grounding me.
And he cannot know how much power he has over me in this moment. Not that I’m going to let it last.
“I’m really not the one trying to hurt you, Rayne,” I say softly a moment later.
I turn over in bed to face him, lying on my side. Mymuscles feel limber and buttery now, like I’ve just been given a new body.
“I think I finally believe that, too,” he tells me. “Maybe.”
He’s lying flat on his back, and he turns a little to look over at me. His head is on my pillow, his hair splayed out around his face.
He looks at my wrist for a moment, then reaches up to toy with my leather bracelets.
“What?”
“Why do you wear these, anyway?”
“I need to have a reason to like wearing a few thin bracelets?”
He reaches up and pulls one of them off, putting it onto his own wrist instead.
He moves his arm around, watching the bracelet slide up and down his own wrist.
“Comfortable, actually,” he says.
“It looks good on you.”
“Good. Now you’re thinking about me rather than your night terrors.”
I sigh. “You know, when I was a teenager and I got night terrors or woke up from nightmares, I wouldn’t count sheep. I’d count throwing knives.”
