Chapter Eight

WE SPENT THE WHOLE weekend together, leaving the bed only long enough to eat again, to shower together. He made love to me over and over—enough times that I finally believe in making love, that I've forgotten to question it. Enough that I understand on some very deep level the way he handles me, that combination of rough, commanding touch and soft, sweet kisses, is what making love is really about.

He has been inside my body for hours, touching me, kissing me. In my big bed, in the shower, in the kitchen while I was making omelets. They burned. It didn't matter. All that mattered was his hard cock inside me, his steady gaze on mine, his strong arms wrapped around my body.

I have come so many times I've lost count. And I am amazed every time.

We stayed up late last night watching rather horrible old monster movies, an entire marathon of Godzilla, Mothra, all those old Japanese cult classics. They are truly awful. But Joshua loved them, told me how it reminded him of being a kid, staying up late on a summer night. And I cannot resist him at those moments when I can see that child in him, beneath his sophisticated surface. Beneath the bad boy hovering behind that sophistication.

I cannot resist him at all.

I am getting to be far too sentimental. Something I have never been before in my life. Something I cannot allow myself to get used to.

Too late.

Oh, yes, those are the words, the doubts, that fill my mind as I sit here in the predawn light, alone. Joshua had to leave early to get ready for work. He has a late meeting, so I won't even hear from him until tomorrow night. I shouldn't talk to him at all, I know that. I should just let him go. But kissing him good-bye was like a blow to the chest.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Now all I feel is a sharp yearning to have the weekend back again. To feel that wonderful light sensation of pure happiness. Panic at knowing I can't really have this lovely dream.

I cannot have this.

Fuck.

The air is cold on my skin, and I pull the blankets up, covering my breasts, my shoulders. I realize that for the first time in a very long time, since the early shock of turning my first tricks, I can hardly stand to be in my own skin.

I try to go back to sleep, but it's impossible. By eight o'clock I give up, get out of bed. It's a gray day, which is fine with me. The usual L.A. sunshine would seem far too optimistic today. Snow White and her smiling fucking woodland animals.

Oh, you are bitter.

Yes, I am. Why shouldn't I be? I have let a man touch me, in all the important places, for the first time in years. Maybe the first time ever. And it was fucking wonderful. And I cannot allow it to happen again.

I consider taking a slug of gin rather than my usual tea, but that's getting to be too pathetic for me. The drinking crap has got to stop. Instead, I go through my morning routine: brew my Earl Grey tea, water my orchids, shower. I throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and remember that I am supposed to make an appointment with the therapist Deirdre is sending me to. I wonder briefly what I'll talk about with her first. There is so much to choose from. My fucked-up childhood? My fucked-up current life?

Just make the damn call.

I dial the number The Broker gave me, talk to a receptionist. She can see me tomorrow afternoon.

I hang up and immediately my stomach is in knots. I am already thinking about what I'm going to say to this woman. Because I know damn well I'm not going to a shrink because I'm too distracted to work. No, that's too simple. I'm going because I am lost. Because I feel as if my life is about to come crashing down around me. And I don't know how to stop it. I don't think there's an easy answer out there for me. Maybe there isn't one at all.

My cell phone rings and I check the caller ID. Bennett. Damn it. I can't handle him today. I can't handle anyone. I shut my phone off and take my tea, get back into bed. I turn on the television, channel surf, looking for an old monster movie, but all I find are talk shows and soap operas. I turn it off, burrow under the covers with my bag of gummi bears, and sulk.

LYDIA FOSTER'S OFFICE IS in one of those quaint old brick buildings in Santa Monica. As I ride the elevator to the third floor, I check my cell phone before powering it off. There are three messages from clients, but I don't even want to think about what they want from me.

Her receptionist is one of those fresh young girls you see so often in this town. She's just filling the chair until she lands a good acting job. A film, a television show. Maybe on a soap. Half these girls end up in my line of work eventually.

I give her my name and a door on the other side of the room opens and my new therapist walks out. She's fiftyish, with shoulder-length strawberry blond hair, a bit frizzy and wild. Large, kind blue eyes peer out from an elfin face. She is dressed conservatively, in a navy skirt and an ivory blouse.

I'd expected her to be intimidating, more like Deirdre, for some reason. She is the exact opposite. Still, my hands are fisted at my sides and I have to force myself to uncurl my fingers to shake her hand.

“You must be Val. I'm Lydia.”

“Yes, nice to meet you.”

“Come into my office.”

She stands and lets me slip through the door, follows me, shutting it behind her.

Her office is all soft neutrals. A light wood bookshelf lines one wall, full of books, small pieces of pottery. A large bronze Buddha is displayed in the center. She gestures for me to sit on a soft sofa piled with throw pillows. I sit with my purse in my lap, as though I'm at a job interview.

What the hell is wrong with me? I set my purse on the floor, try to breathe normally.

Lydia settles into an armchair across from me.

“So,” she says, “tell me why you're here.”

I laugh, a small, harsh sound. “I thought you were supposed to tell me that.”

I immediately feel like an idiot. But she just smiles at me. “That's not my job. My job is to listen, to prompt you to figure things out yourself, in a way your psyche can accept.”

“Oh …” I shift, cross my legs, tug on the end of my hair, twining a strand around my finger. “What do you want to know? ”

“What do you want to tell me?”

“Do you always answer a question with a question?”

She smiles once more. “I'm here to be a sounding board. You only have to talk about what you want to talk about. I'm not going to tell you what to do, what to say. You get to decide that, okay?”

I nod. “Yes, sure.”

Taking a moment, I let my gaze settle on the shelves behind her chair. There are art books there, among the self-help and psychology titles, books on spirituality.

“Well … you know that Deirdre referred me to you, so you know what I do for a living.”

“How would you describe what you do for a living, Val?”

I look up at her, meet her watery blue eyes. “It's Valentine. If I'm going to be honest with you, open, you should call me Valentine.”

“Alright. Valentine.”

I can tell she is the kind of person who will remain calm no matter what I say, what I do. Frightening and reassuring all at the same time.

I lean forward a fraction of an inch. It's really more a flexing of tight muscle. “I'm a call girl. A prostitute. I sell my body for sex. A hooker. A whore.”

“You sound bitter.”

“Do I?” I can feel my pulse racing. I have no reason to be angry with this woman. “Maybe I am. Maybe that's why I'm here.”

She's quiet a moment, then, “Was there some incident that sparked your interest in therapy?”

“I had a complaint from a client and Deirdre sent me to you.”

“I meant, did something happen to you personally?”

“What? No.” I curl my fingers into my palms, the nails biting into the soft flesh there and say, more quietly, “Yes.”

She waits for me to elaborate.

“I don't know how to do this,” I tell her. “This one-way conversation thing. Am I supposed to just spew my guts while you listen?”

“Sometimes, yes.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, clasps her hands together. “I'll tell you a secret, Valentine. I can already see your intelligence. I have no intention of bullshitting you. Part of what we therapists look for, particularly on a first meeting, is body language. Your comfort level, or lack of comfort, in talking about yourself. It's part of how we get to know a client.”

“So this is a test.”

“No. This is me observing how you respond to this environment.”

“And?”

“And it's too soon for me to come to any real conclusions. We're just getting started. Why don't you talk about what brought you here?”

“Oh, well …” I uncross my legs, cross them again. I'm glad I wore jeans, something I rarely do. I don't want to look like a hooker to this woman. “It's a man. How cliché is that? But that's what made me stop and think about… everything. My work. My life.”

“A client?”

“Oh, God no.”

She's quiet again, contemplative. She sits back in her chair. “What is it about him that makes you question everything, as you said?”

“He's so damn perfect.” I push my hair away from my face. I want to pull it, to make it hurt. Instead, I keep talking. “He's too beautiful and too good. A real person. He's not like me, you know? He has a real life. A man like that could never be with me.”

“Because you're not a real person?”

“Something like that, yes. My life is a totally surreal existence. I know that. I've been living it for nearly a decade. There's no room in it for a man like Joshua. And there's certainly no place in his life for a woman like me.”

“And you find that difficult to accept?”

“It's fucking impossible.” I shake my head. “I'm sorry.”

She shrugs, smiles. “I've heard worse.”

She really is awfully nice, this Lydia Foster. But I'm not ready to let my guard down completely yet.

It strikes me that my guard is never down; it hasn't been since I was maybe five years old.

“I have a terrible habit of swearing,” I tell her. “I grew up around it. I've never gotten over it. But I can usually keep it under control when I have to.”

“You don't have to here.”

I nod, look away. There's a window to my left, sectioned into small panes. Outside the sun glances green and gold on the leaves of a tree. Behind it the fall sky is blue, marred by a thin layer of smog. I've known that sky all my life. One of the few constants.

“I had this weird childhood. Dysfunctional.”

“In what way?”

“In every way.”

“Oh?”

I shake my head. “I'm sorry. I was drifting.”

“I don't think you were.”

“Maybe. I guess I'm supposed to talk about my childhood. Isn't that what Freud would say? ”

“Probably.”

“What would you say? ”

“I like to let the client set the pace. Why don't you just talk for a while, and we'll let it go wherever your mind chooses. Okay?”

“Yes. Sure.”

“You were talking about your childhood.”

“Yes.” I pull on my hair again, wrap my fingers up in the ends, take a breath. My childhood is the one thing I try to avoid thinking about as much as possible. But if I'm not going to go there, what the hell am I doing here? Why bother? I'm not supposed to like it. I'm just supposed to do it.

Shit.

But I am going to do it.

Why do I feel like this is some sort of last chance for me?

“My mother was an alcoholic.”

I have to stop, breathe. I've never actually said that out loud to anyone. It's never been necessary. I didn't know it would feel like this. Like a small knife slipping between my ribs. I didn't know it would feel like anything,

“How did that affect you, growing up?”

“How didn't it affect me? She was depressed. Insecure. A real mess. And my father, he couldn't stand it. I can't blame him. That's why he was gone all the time, off with other women. My mother was pathetic. I always knew that, even when I was very young.”

“How do you think that's influenced how you see yourself as a woman?”

“Oh, I'm completely opposite from her. I take care of myself, keep my life under control. I rarely have more than a drink or two.”

“Do you ever experience depression?”

“No, I don't think so.”

“And your self-esteem?”

“It's fine. I'm fine.”

“And yet you believe this man, Joshua, is too good for you.”

It's like being socked in the chest. The air just rushes right out of my lungs.

Fuck.

I say, “Yes.” It comes out in a small, hissing whisper.

She sits quietly, waiting. Finally she says, “Let's go back to your childhood. Tell me about your father.”

I take a few moments, finding my breath. “He wasn't around much. I never really felt that I knew him. I felt… separate from him. Maybe my mom had something to do with that, kept us separate. He'd leave for days, sometimes weeks at a time. She would spend most of that time on the sofa, a bottle in her hand. There's a reason why it's called stinking drunk.” I have to stop, to shake the memory away. It's too awful. “I took care of myself. I ate a lot of cereal until I was old enough to figure out how to cook. After Mom passed out I could change the channel and watch the cooking shows. That's one thing I have now; I love to cook when I get the chance.”

“You became self-reliant.”

“Yes. I always have been. I've always had to be.”

“What was it like when your father was home?”

“It was worse. They'd lock me in my room. Well, it was my mother who did that. I doubt he even remembered I was there half the time. I doubt he knew I existed.”

Why does it hurt to say these things? Things I've known all my life. My chest aches as though a heavy weight is pressing there. I draw another breath in, hold on to it a moment, as though it might keep me afloat.

“What I know about relationships comes from those nights. Being locked in my room, sometimes without any dinner, and the two of them fucking like crazy in the other room. Their moans. Their laughter.

“He'd bring gifts on those nights. Well, for Mom, mostly, but sometimes for me. He never once apologized, for any of it. But my mother seemed to think those little gifts were everything. She'd tell me how hard marriage was. What a burden the sex was, how she only did it to keep him. How the gifts made it all worth it for a while. And the better the gift was, the more crap she'd put up with.” It's pouring out now, like the proverbial broken dam. It hurts, but I can't stop it. I don't want to badly enough. “She told me how sex was the only time she had any control over him. She told me far too much, frankly. And she was so damn grateful for whatever small pleasure she got out of him, and believe me, it wasn't much. Even when he was gone, she was never angry enough. Just so incredibly sad. I hated her sadness. I hated them both for it, but her most of all, because I knew it was what drove him away.”

I stop, trying to untangle all those ugly bits and pieces from my brain. I want to tear them out. I want them all to be gone. But this is part of who I am. It will always be there.

“And what about your teen years, Valentine?”

“That was better. And worse. I'd gotten too old for my mom to drag me around anymore, to lock me in my room. I was pretty much left to my own devices by about age thirteen. I stayed out late, did what I wanted to. I got into smoking cigarettes for a while, drinking beer with my friends, but it reminded me too much of my mother, so that stopped pretty quickly. I became hypersexual, sleeping with all the boys in school, the occasional college guy. I never had a real boyfriend, not even then.”

“What about it was bad, exactly?”

“Well, the sleeping around itself, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I mean, I don't think sex itself is bad, even at that age. But it was just so fucking … empty. I was looking for something to … fill me up. But it never did. Oh, I got that momentary thrill of male attention. That validation. But no one really cared. Even I didn't care.”

I think back for a moment to that article I read on the way to New York, about those girls. So abandoned. So like me. A small wrenching sensation in my chest. For them. For myself. What difference might it have made if someone gave a shit?

“I think my early sexual behavior was a culmination of all that happened prior to that, in my childhood, with my parents. And then my sexual behavior as an adult… I think I've partitioned my life in my mind, separating the two. The time before I got paid for sex, and the time after.” The words are just streaming out now, the thoughts forming milliseconds before translating into language. “But ultimately, it was all the same thing, wasn't it? Because there's always been this issue with my orgasms. And it's all got to be connected.”

“Yes?” Lydia prompts.

I look right at her, watching for her reaction. “I've never been able to have an orgasm without getting paid for it. I can't even masturbate successfully.”

And there it is, laid out on the table. I feel naked. Raw.

“What do you think that's about for you?”

“Oh, I know what it's about. It's about control. Isn't that what it always is? Classic control freak.”

I'm being snotty again, and I really don't mean to be, but my chest is twisting into a hard ball, like a stone.

“It's not important to define anything here for anyone but yourself, Valentine.”

“Okay. Okay.” I nod my head, pause. My voice is a thin whisper. “That's all changed, though. With him.”

“Joshua?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that's a positive sign?”

“Yes. No.” I tighten my grip on my hair. I hadn't even been aware I was still holding on to it. “God, I don't know. Everything is different with him.”

“Why do you think it's different?”

“Maybe … maybe because it's the first normal relationship I've allowed myself to have. And I use the term ‘normal’ lightly. But it's more than I've ever had by a long shot. He lets me … I can let go of some of the control with him. Like the orgasm is my own. It doesn't belong to anyone else. And that's scary for me. I don't know if this is making sense.”

Lydia is quiet a moment. “Do you think if you'd had what you call a ‘normal’ relationship before now, you might have been able to work through this orgasm issue?”

“Maybe. I don't know. So much of what's happening right now seems to be about Joshua. About the kind of man he is. My response to him. But I also think sometimes things happen only when you're ready for it to happen. Big changes.”

“So this is a time of change for you. Of transformation.”

“Yes.” My pulse is racing. “Yes. That's why I'm here, isn't it? That's why I'm so fucking scared.” I look at Lydia. “Is this even going to help?”

“I hope so.” She smiles at me again. There's warmth there, and sincerity.

I realize that I hope so, too.

“To answer your earlier question, I don't exactly know why I'm here. I don't know what I hope to get out of this. I don't know what I can hope for. But I want… something.”

Something just for me, for once.

“I think that's a good place to start.”

I can feel myself warming toward this woman. Opening up. Softening a little on the inside. And I also know it didn't start with her, here in this office. It started with Joshua. But I need to try to put him aside while I'm here with Lydia. I need to figure myself out before I can even begin to decide where he fits into the equation, if he fits at all. I'm still doubtful. But also, for the first time since he came into my life and began to change it, I have some sense of hope.

I don't know yet what I'm hoping for, as I've just said to Lydia. But a woman like me has to hang on to whatever she can.

AFTER THE THERAPY I feel… strange. As though all of my nerve endings are on high alert, sensitive. My muscles are tight; my skin is tight. Restless, I go to the Century City mall for a while, wandering the shops, but nothing catches my interest. And I can't stand the people today, everyone so damned polished and pretty. It's all so fucking artificial. I get in my car and head home, cutting over to Wilshire and heading east, into Hollywood.

It's smoggier here, inland, than it was in Santa Monica. And simply seeing that familiar sky brings me back to my earlier musings about my childhood.

I do not want to think about this.

Regardless, images flash through my head: the half-darkened living room, my mother sitting on the couch, her hair askew, the air thick with her hot cigarette smoke, the stench of stale booze. And me on the couch next to her, trapped while she goes on and on about what an asshole my father is. While she tells me that men are supposed to be good for fucking, but my father, that useless bastard, isn't even good at that. How much she hates having to sleep with him, how hard it is to smile and play along, letting him do what he wants to her, just so he won't leave again.

But he always did, didn't he?

I feel sick, suddenly, my stomach churning. Unbearable.

I pull over, right in the middle of the perfect emerald lawns of Beverly Hills, and throw up on the street.

After wiping my mouth with a Kleenex pulled from my purse, I take a swallow from my water bottle, sit a moment to catch my breath before I pull back onto the road.

What the hell is wrong with me?

All I want now is to get home. To crawl into bed as though I'm ill. Maybe I am.

I'm shaking by the time I get to my house and make it through the front door. Tossing my keys and my purse on the table in the entry hall, I kick my shoes off, start stripping off my clothes. And see the blinking light on my answering machine. I don't feel like talking to anyone.

Except Joshua.

I punch the button.

“Valentine, it's Joshua. When can I see you?” A pause, then, “I want to see you tonight. I want to see you now. Call me.”

My stomach flutters. Relief rushes through my body, leaving me weak-kneed. I am dying to see him, in a way that frankly scares the hell out of me. But I'm too shaken up to talk to him now.

I get naked and crawl into bed, pulling the covers up over my head. I don't care about anything but hiding away for a while, sleeping off this sense of shock. The rest of the world can go away. I can't deal with anything. Not even him, as much as I want to see him, talk to him, touch him. Feel his arms around me.

Oh yes, I want that more than anything.

I curl into a tight ball beneath the weight of the covers, reach over and grab the bag of gummi bears from my night-stand, pop one into my mouth. And with the sugar melting on my tongue, sweet and comforting, I drift off.

IT'S DARK ALREADY WHEN the phone wakes me. I make a grab for it, fumbling, drop it on the floor and have to get out of bed to retrieve it.

“Hello?”

“Valentine. It's me.”

His voice is like a hand caressing my naked skin in the dark.

“Joshua?”

“Are you okay? Were you sleeping? It's only eight-thirty.”

“No. I mean, yes, I'm fine. I was asleep.” I run a hand through my hair, silently ordering my brain to function. “I think I slept most of the day.”

“Are you coming down with something?” Concern in his voice. Lovely. Soothing.

“What? No, I'm fine. I was just… tired. What are you doing? How are you?”

“I'm dying to see you.” He laughs. “I guess that's obvious.”

I smile to myself, warming all over. “That's okay. I like it.”

And I do.

“Come out with me tomorrow night. I promise to buy you dinner this time.”

“Why don't you come over now?”

Yes. Get him here, in your bed.

“Now? Really?”

“Yes. Please. Just come here. Can you do that?”

“I'll be right there. Don't go anywhere.”

“I won't. I can't. I'm naked.”

“I may get a speeding ticket, Valentine.” He chuckles softly, desire lacing his voice. “Stay just as you are.”

I nod as though he can see me. “Alright. I'm waiting for you.”

We hang up and I curl up on top of the covers, letting the cool night air breathe over my skin, bringing up goose bumps. But I don't care. I don't want to cover myself. He said to stay here, naked, and I will. And I will take a deep pleasure in doing exactly what he asks of me. Doesn't matter why.

I am in an almost meditative state by the time he arrives. His knock at the door is a solid thud that echoes in my empty chest.

When I pull open the door he's smiling, a crooked, lustful grin. And my body is on fire even before he pushes through the door and takes me in his arms.

He kisses me, those long, lovely kisses again. And I am aching for him, longing, needing. His hands are everywhere, stroking my bare skin, that hard, demanding touch that makes me swoon. The darkness is like a cocoon around us as he sheds his clothes, pulls me up against his body, naked now, as I am. His erection is like a velvet-sheathed weight against my stomach, pressing, pressing, until I can hardly stand it.

Heat radiates from him, warming me, all but my bare feet on the cool floor. And then he is pushing me down on the long sofa, his body covering mine. The weight of him is erotic to me, just his big body holding me down. I want it just like this, need it: that sense of him being the one in control, of turning myself over to him, to my need for him.

My pulse is racing as he brushes his cheeks over my breasts, nuzzling them. My nipples are hard already. Wanting. My thighs are spreading as if of their own accord, opening up my body to him. And his hand slips down between us, stroking the wet flesh of my aching sex. Stroking, stroking, making me shiver all over with pleasure. God, he knows just how to do it, two fingers sinking savagely inside me while he circles my clitoris with his thumb. And when he pulls one nipple into his mouth, his teeth grazing the tender flesh, then really biting, I arch, my hips straining. His fingers sink deeper, his mouth sucking me in, one hand on my hip holding me down, pressing my body into the cushions. And my sudden climax is like an eruption of pleasure in my belly, in my sex, my breasts.

“Joshua!”

“Yeah, come for me, baby.”

I am coming and coming; I can't stop. He's working my clit still, his fingers pumping as he whispers encouragement against my parted lips.

“Oh, yeah, baby. Come for me. So good …”

With my climax still shimmering through my system in small, lingering waves, I wrap my legs around him, beg him, “Please, Joshua. I need you inside me.”

“Wait…”

He reaches over the side of the sofa, comes back with a condom pulled from his pocket, I imagine. I'm just grateful he's thought of everything. Then he's kneeling up over me, slipping the condom on while I run my hands over the taut muscles of his stomach. He is watching me in that way he has as he lowers his body over mine. So slowly, making me need him even more, and his hands holding me down, pressing onto my shoulders, in that way he has which makes me feel completely taken over. That intensity is there, in the way his eyes glitter in the half-dark, in the tension in every muscle of his beautiful body, in the electric current in the air between us.

When his cock probes at the opening to my body, I pull in a deep, gasping breath, my hands going to his hips, trying to pull him in.

“Wait, Valentine. I want to enjoy every moment of this.”

“Yes …”

Yes, he's right. I am in too much of a hurry. I can't help myself. I know he'll make me come again.

Oh, yes.

He presses, and the tip of his cock slides right in, like steel over silk, I am that wet. My entire body throbs with pleasure, with anticipation. Then a little deeper. He stops, his expression one of exquisite pain, except that it is pleasure.

“Jesus, Valentine. You feel so good, I can barely stand it.”

My hand goes to his cheek; he is too beautiful at this moment for me not to touch him. Pleasure is like a thousand stars, burning into my body as he begins to move, just the tiniest surge of his hips against mine. And my chest feels tight, drawn, simply watching his face. My fingers trace along his jaw, over his lips, and he smiles. Then one hard, lovely thrust, and we are both groaning, panting.

His hands bear down on my shoulders, really using his weight, until I am unable to move. I love this sensation of being held, of being helpless beneath him. Of being his.

I am losing my mind.

But when he starts to move, really pumping inside me, I am too lost in sensation to think anymore. It is just his body and mine, the lovely friction, the scent of him, the power of his touch, his dark gaze, and his smooth skin beneath my grasping hands.

And as he thrusts into me, he moves one of his hands to my throat, presses just a little, just enough to constrict my airflow the tiniest bit, to make my body surge with alarm and hot, sharp pleasure. But I know so deeply that he won't hurt me. And I'm a little dizzy; desire acute, exquisite, incredibly intense. As intense as his gaze hard on mine, glittering. Bottomless.

Pleasure courses through me in brilliant, stinging currents, burrowing deeper and deeper. It builds within me, taking me higher than I have ever been, before dropping me into that abyss, into his dark gaze, into him. And I shatter, coming so damn hard I am blinded, breathless, shaking.

He tenses, pumps harder into me, so deep I can feel him hitting my cervix. Pain and pleasure all mixed together, and the hammering beat of my heart, the throbbing of my own climax still heavy in my body.

I am spent. But so content to lie here with Joshua's weight on top of me, with the scent of sex in my nostrils. We are both damp, breathing hard. He lifts his head to brush a kiss across my lips. I want him to keep kissing me, but I truly cannot move, cannot speak.

I am so afraid of what I'm feeling at this moment.

I decide not to think about it.

No, it's too good to think about him. About his softening cock still inside me, the warmth of his big body against mine, that lovely pressure holding me down, holding me together in some strange way. His skin is so incredibly soft for a man, with that hard-packed muscle underneath.

I run my hands over him, feeling the texture of his body. And he begins to kiss my cheek, tiny, soft kisses that flutter over my skin like air. Only it's his warm lips on my cheek, then on my mouth. And as I sink into his kiss, my heart fills, warms, and I am crying. I can't stop. Quiet tears that slip down my cheeks.

“What's this, Valentine?” he asks, his voice soft and sweet.

“I don't know.”

And I don't. It's all so damn confusing to me. I don't know why I'm crying, what I'm feeling. But the strangest part is that I don't want to run away from it, from this moment. I'm fine, with Joshua whispering to me, wiping my tears away with his hand. I really am.

He doesn't ask for more explanation, and I'm grateful. I couldn't give him one right now.

This is alien territory for me. And I'm afraid, yes, but also accepting of it. For now. There will be plenty of time to dissect it all later, in the safety of Lydia's office, perhaps. But for now, I just need to be here with him. It makes me feel strong, somehow. It's enough. It's more than I've ever had before. This moment is mine—ours. I'm not giving it away to the past. For once.