Fueled (Driven, #2)(8)
He starts to say something and then clears his throat and stops, burying his face back into the curve of my neck. “You’re the first person that’s ever known about those dreams.”
His bombshell of a confession rocks my mind. In all his therapy dealing with whatever it is that has happened to him, he’s never talked to anyone about this? He’s that hurt, that ashamed, that traumatized, that whatever, that for almost thirty years he has kept this festering inside of himself without any help? My God. My heart twists for the little boy growing up and for the man that sits behind me—so disturbed by whatever happened that he’s kept it bottled up inside.
“What about your parents? Your therapists?”
Colton is silent, his body taut and unmoving, and I don’t want to push the issue. I lean my head back on his shoulder and angle my face so it nuzzles into the side of his neck. I kiss the underside of his jaw softly and then rest my head down, closing my eyes, absorbing this quiet vulnerability from him.
“I thought…” He clears his throat as he tries to find his voice. He swallows harshly and I can feel his throat work beneath my lips. “I thought that if they knew about them—really knew the reasons behind why I had them—they wouldn’t…” He stops for a moment, and I can feel the unease rolling off of him, as if the words are physically hard for him to utter. I press another kiss on his neck in silent reassurance. “They wouldn’t want me anymore.” He exhales slowly and I know the admission has cost him dearly.
“Oh, Colton.” The words fall from my mouth before I can stop them, knowing full well the last thing he wants is my sympathy.
“Don’t…” he pleads, “Don’t pity me―”
“I’m not,” I tell him, although my heart can’t help but feel that way. “I’m just thinking how hard it must have been to be a little boy and feeling all alone without ever being able to talk about it…that’s all.” I fall silent, thinking that I’ve said and pushed hard enough on a topic he obviously doesn’t want to address. But I can’t help the next words that tumble from my lips. “You know you can talk to me.” I murmur against his skin. His hands tense in mine. “I won’t judge you or try to fix you, but sometimes just getting it out, getting rid of the hate or shame or whatever is eating you makes it a tad bit more bearable.” I want to say so much more but forcibly tuck it away for another day, another time when he’s a little less raw, a little less exposed. “I apologize,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No, I’m sorry,” he says with an agitated sigh, leaning forward and kissing the shoulder he tagged with his elbow. “For so very much. For my words and my actions. For not dealing with my own shit.” The regret in his voice is so resonating. “First I hurt you and then I was rough with you in the shower.”
I can’t help the smile that forms on my lips. “Not going to say that I minded.”
He laughs softly and it’s such a good sound to hear after the angst that filled it moments ago. “About your shoulder or about the shower?”
“Um, shower,” I say, noting his attempt to digress from my comment and thinking that a change in topic is just what is needed to add a little levity to our extremely somber and intense morning.
“You surprise me at every turn.”
“How so?”
“Did Max ever treat you this way?”
What? Where is he going with this? His comment takes me by surprise. When, I turn and face him, he just tightens his arms around my torso and pulls me closer. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Did he?” he insists, the master of deflection.
“No,” I admit contemplatively. Sensing I’ve relaxed some, he unlaces his fingers from mine and moves them back up to draw aimless lines on my arms. I look down at my hand and watch as I poke absently at the bubbles. “You were right.”
“‘Bout what?”
“The first time we met. You told me that my boyfriend must treat me like glass,” I whisper, feeling like I’m betraying Max’s memory. “You were right. He was a gentleman in every way. Even during sex.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Colton concedes, bringing his hands up to massage the base of my neck. I don’t speak, shocked at myself for feeling how I do. “What is it? Your shoulders just tensed up.”
I exhale a shuddered sigh, embarrassed at my train of thought. “I thought that was how it was supposed to be…that was what I wanted sex to be. He was my only experience. And now…”
“Now what?” he prompts with a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Nothing.” Heat rushes into my cheeks.
“Rylee, talk to me for Christ’s sake. I just f*cked you in my shower like an animal. Used you basically for my own reprieve, and yet you can’t tell me what you’re thinking?”
“That’s exactly it.” I aimlessly draw circles down his thighs that cradle my sides, the admission tackling all of my modesty and throwing it to the ground. “I liked it. I never realized it could be different. That it could be so raw and…” Oh my God I’m drowning here. I don’t think I even spoke to Max about sex like this, and we were together for over six years. I’ve known Colton less than a month, and we’re discussing how I think it’s a turn on to be manhandled. Sweet f*cking Jesus as Colton would say.