Marie was scared of him. He could smell it every time he got too close. He had been worried that touching her would be too hard, that once he started he wouldn’t be able to stop, but the smell of her fear was enough to dampen any desire. He just felt hollow when her skin met his—and a little bit sick with himself.
Fear. This wasn’t what he wanted, wasn't the acceptance, the bond, sweet, good, pure. This was wrong.
And yet he couldn’t stay away. Kept hoping, every time he folded her hand in his or ran his fingers through her hair, that this time would be different. That she would finally stop feeling scared. If he could just prove himself to her, earn her acceptance. Show her that he could be relaxed and calm, and make her understand that his touch was undemanding, then maybe . . . just maybe, that awful fear smell would go away.
What had he done, to make her think that he would hurt her? Why was she so frightened of him? He had asked her many times (hating the desperation in his voice) exactly what she knew about him. But she always insisted that his thoughts and memories were shielded from her, that she couldn’t see them. He couldn’t smell a lie on her.
But somehow, she had to know what his intentions were. She knew what he really wanted from her. And she was scared of him.
Sick sonofabitch he was, he still couldn’t stop yearning for her. So when she met him in the kitchen at two in the morning, looking so cute and sleep-mussed in her ridiculous pajamas, like a little girl in a woman’s body, he couldn’t help provoking her. Bringing color to her cheeks, drawing out that twang in her voice, playing with her sleep-tangled hair.
He knew how to make her feel anything, how to make her mad, make her laugh or cry or grin from ear to ear. He had learned her over the years, piece by piece, atom by atom. He knew what to do, to make her respond however he wanted. Knew how to do everything . . . except make her enjoy his touch.
And that hurt. But maybe he was a glutton for pain, because before he knew it, the words had slipped from his lips: “Wanna practice?”
And then her hand was under his, and she was scared and uncomfortable, fidgeting on the barstool. Her body responded a little bit, every hint of arousal followed by an even more powerful spike of fear.
So, she didn’t like how her body responded to him, didn’t want to want him. And wasn’t that even worse? He couldn’t make her feel good, no matter what. Even if her body accepted him, she never would.
He was just about to chug down the rest of his beer, end this torture, when he felt something. Numb, but tingling. And then something foreign slipping inside of him, little impulses traveling up the nerves in his hand, his arm, straight to his spine and through his brain.
I’ll never be good enough. He thinks I’m pathetic. Why isn’t his palm hot and sweating like mine? What’s wrong with me?
A million thoughts swirled around in his brain, complicated, twisted up words and images and feelings. Th—that’s why she was afraid? Really? No one who saw her calm, innocent face would ever expect those roiling thoughts going on just under the surface, the depth of hurt and insecurity hidden behind deep, dark brown eyes. Marie was pretty and well-liked, loved by the kids and respected by the senior staff. How could she not see any of that?
How could she even think he wouldn’t want her because she was too sweet and innocent? That was why he wanted her. He couldn’t let this go on any longer. They were both hurting themselves for no good reason. One thought reverberated through his mind again, an agonized question: What’s wrong with me?
“Nothin’. Absolutely nothin’, sweetheart.”
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