Marriage of Inconvenience(Knitting in the City Book #7)(85)
Pushing away, I forced my eyes to his and blurted the truth of it, “I can’t do this unless I’m drunk.”
He reared back, his body now tense, as though he’d been shocked by an electric current. Dan’s gorgeous eyes moved between mine and he seemed to be struggling to find words.
Eventually, he said, “Are you serious?”
“I’ve never—I’m sorry.” I covered my face with my hands again. A stabbing pain cut through the numbness, almost unbearable, and I choked on a ridiculous sob as I tried to move away.
“What? No. Don’t apologize.” He encircled me in his arms, not letting me leave.
I didn’t struggle against him, and I didn’t cry. I held my breath and forced myself to get a grip, to focus, to step away from all the swirling wishes and hopes and desires I’d been carrying around, and surrender to the fact that maybe I was just built this way.
I wasn’t a sexual person.
I didn’t like sex.
And that was that.
The cold certainty eclipsed the stabbing pain, morphing it into a dull, tight ache. I slowly exhaled through my mouth, relaxing against him, letting go, and swallowed bubbling resentment.
Yeah, it sucked.
But what could I do?
Even the mere idea of trying and failing again with Dan made me want to lock myself in a room made of cheese for all eternity.
His hand stroked the back of my head and he tugged my braid, bringing my gaze back to his. “Why do you think you need to be drunk?”
He sounded curious, not concerned, not upset, and some of the bitterness I’d been choking on subsided, making it easier to breathe.
“It’s just how I am, it’s how I’ve always been. I can’t—I can’t relax. I’m too much in my own head. Even when I . . .”
“When you?”
“When I touch myself,” I said on a rush, wincing, my cheeks heating with mortification.
Why are we even discussing this? Why do I insist on asphyxiating on my own failure?
“You drink before you touch yourself?”
“Yes. I used to.” I cleared my throat, forcing calm into my voice. “I have to drink if I want to, you know, get to the end. I used to drink a lot, before I did it. So I don’t drink anymore if there’s a chance I could. . . if I might . . . be physical.” I said this last part quickly and cleared my throat again. “Anyway, my therapist said the drinking was unhealthy, self-medicating. And she said there’s nothing wrong with me physically, I’ve been tested and screened for everything. I even stopped taking birth control just in case it was a hormonal thing.”
“You’re not on birth control?”
I shook my head. “No.”
A soft sound rumbled from his chest, then he said, “Now that we’re on the topic, I’m STD free. Just had my summer physical in June.”
The ferocity of my blush increased; despite my past, I wasn’t used to having these kinds of conversations. “I’m STD free, too,” I said, but had to clear my throat again before speaking. “But, it doesn’t matter anyway because I can’t and it’s all psychological and—oh, dammit! Never mind.” I didn’t want to talk about this, about all the ways I was messed up.
He made a distracted, thoughtful noise, like huh.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
“Please stop apologizing.” Dan held me tighter. “I’m thinking here. Give me a minute to think.”
We lay like that for several minutes, during which his hold loosened, but his hands began moving in absentminded circles on my hip. His touch felt good, the friction and heat on my bare skin and over the thin fabric of my pajamas. Intermittently, I told myself to relax while also cursing myself for being this way.
“So, it’s like you can’t stop thinking? Or what?” His voice was infinitely gentle and still laced with curiosity, giving me the impression he really wanted to understand.
“That’s right. Or something like that.” I sniffed, now more in control and no longer in danger of breaking down. “My therapist suspects it’s because I don’t feel like I’m, uh . . .”
“What?”
“Desirable.”
His eyes came to mine and held, a look of complete disbelief claimed his features. “Are you fucking with me?”
“No.” I shook my head.
“You don’t think you’re beautiful?”
“It’s not really about that.” My voice was much smaller than I would have liked, so I lifted my chin. “I don’t know what it’s about. If I knew what the problem was, I would fix it. But I don’t. I don’t know how to fix myself. And I’m so, so sorry I’m this way. But, I want you to know, I still want to be with you.”