Ask Me Again

by E. J. Noyes

  The alternative was unthinkable.

  The shape under the covers shifted, then rolled over to face my side of the bed. After a few moments, Bec sat up, looking about the room until her gaze fixed on me. “Sabine? Are you okay?” she said, the query sluggish with interrupted sleep. Bec reached over to turn on her bedside light, tilting her head away from the sudden brightness.

  “Yeah. Just can’t sleep.”

  A hand snaked out from under the duvet, fingers wiggling as they reached toward me. “Darling, come back to bed.”

  “I won’t sleep and I don’t want to keep you awake.”

  “Then we can talk if you want to. Please, come here.”

  I rose from the chair and crawled back into bed. Bec drew the duvet up over my shoulders, leaning forward to kiss my nose then my forehead. The silence settled over us, gradually growing heavier until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I closed my eyes, drew in a deep breath and blurted, “I just…feel like I don’t want you to touch me, like you’re going to find something you don’t like.” See something inside that I didn’t want her to, know the thing I was desperately trying to hide while I figured out how to make it better.

  We’d made love once since I’d come home five weeks ago. Once. We for who once was our per day quota, not our per month. And the more I pulled away, the worse the feeling became because I was the one withholding from her. She deserved so much more. So much better.

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” she mused quietly. “There is nothing about you that I don’t love, Sabine. Not inside or outside.”

  My breath came out in an exasperated huff. “I want you, I love you, I want to make love with you, but I just…it’s, I think it’s that thing.”

  “What thing?” she asked, propping herself up on an elbow as she studied my face. She wasn’t going to let me get away with vaguely skimming over the facts. Not this time.

  “It’s my PTSD,” I finally said, quietly, as though that would somehow give the word less weight.

  “Have you talked to Andrew Pace about it?”

  “Yes.”

  It wasn’t a lie, we had skimmed over it in our sessions, but I didn’t need to tell him intimate details because I already knew the issue. The same one I’d had after The Incident where I’d been so terrified of making love with Bec that I tensed every time she tried to initiate it. Back then I was afraid of hurting myself. Now I was afraid of her touching me, of running her hands over my body…over my scars. Which was absurd because she’d touched me, touched them, thousands of times. One night back then, all the fear had melted away and I’d been fine. Would it happen that way this time too?

  “What did he say?”

  “Basically we’ll just keep working at it.” That was the nutshell version. The only version I wanted to get into at the moment.

  “That sounds like a good plan.” After a pause, she added, “You know, it’s not just about sex.” She used her fingertips to brush hair from my forehead. “You’re struggling, darling. Please, let me help you.”

  “That’s not the first time you’ve said that to me,” I murmured. It seemed like an eternity ago. After my ex left me, and I’d fallen into a state so mentally and physically exhausted that I’d frozen during surgery, Bec—in her capacity as my boss—had made me medicate myself so I could sleep and recuperate.

  Bec smiled. “No, it’s not. But that time I didn’t call you darling. As much as I wanted to.”

  “Are you going to tell me to drug myself now?”

  “No, I’m not going to tell you what to do even though I think medication is a good idea.” Before I could even open my mouth, she shushed me quietly. She knew me too well. “Sabine, there’s nothing shameful about what you’re feeling, and I know your feelings are real. But at the same time, I’m worried that you could be reacting to things you think might happen rather than things that are actually happening. Medication to help settle those thoughts would be beneficial.”

  I huffed out a sigh. Bec was right of course—I always embraced the worst-case scenario. Worrying about what she might think or do instead of focusing on what she was doing.

  Bec spoke with quiet conviction. “Trust me, please. Trust Andrew. And trust yourself.”

  Nodding, I agreed, “Okay. I just, I can’t help but worry…how many times can I ask you to wait for me to get better? How many times do I have to beg you to stick with me while this thing is overshadowing everything in our lives?”

  “You can ask me again and again, and I will always say yes, Sabine.” The words came out with an edge of panic, like she couldn’t say it fast enough. Did she really mean it?

  I couldn’t do anything but nod, the lump in my throat making my response stick. So I kissed her, lightly, intending it as nothing more than to signal the end of the conversation so we could sleep. Or so I could insomnia. But when her hands came to cup my face as they usually did, something familiar but unexpected stirred in my belly. Need. Desire.

  I rolled her over, pressing her gently down to the bed, settling carefully on top of her with my forearms resting flat on the mattress either side of her shoulders. Aside from her mouth moving against mine with familiar warmth, she was still. Almost as though she was afraid to move and break the mood. I slid my tongue against her lower lip and with a quiet sigh, she opened her mouth to me. Bec’s leg slid between mine until I was straddling her thigh, and the effect was almost instantaneous—a low deep curl of arousal in my belly that spread heat through my legs. I lifted my head to look down at her, wanting to see what I felt in my body mirrored in her eyes.

  And I found it—the heat and need in those familiar blue depths. Bec raised her head, seeking another kiss and when I gave it to her, she tangled her hand in my hair, fingers brushing my scalp. After a careful stroke of her tongue against mine, she pulled back. “Are you sure?” Her expression could only be described as hopeful, and it smothered some of my gnawing doubt. She was hopeful I wouldn’t bail again, hopeful we’d actually have sex, hopeful I’d behave like a normal partner.

  I loved Bec. I loved sex. I loved sex with Bec. It wasn’t like the whole thing was a hardship or not pleasurable on some level. Just do it, Sabine. She’s not going to hurt you, she’s not going to be repulsed. I answered her with another kiss, this one deeper and lingering until I felt her press harder against me. A soft groan followed, but Bec pulled away again, though this time I could feel her reluctance. “I don’t want to push, if you’re not comfortable.”

  I rested my forehead against hers. “You’re not pushing me, baby.” I’m pushing myself, Bec. I have to, or I’m going to fall apart, never to be put back together again.

  She let out a soft exclamation when I dipped my head to suck the skin where neck met collarbone, then moved the soft cotton tee aside to kiss the swell of her breast. Bec reached to turn out the light but I grasped her arm. “No. Leave it on please. I want to see you.” Needed to know it was her. And that I was safe.

  She slid her hands over my shoulders, likely intending to continue a leisurely trek down my back to my ass, but I tensed when her fingers brushed the slightly cratered exit-wound scar on my scapula. And she withdrew. Just like that. Without pushing or questioning.

  Our foreplay was long and slow, the kind that usually heralded hours of lovemaking and a connection so exquisitely sweet I could almost cry. Now I felt awkward, shy almost as though I wanted to second-guess every kiss and touch, and each sound she made.

  Stop it, Sabine. Not the time, not—

  “Baby…”

  I blinked a few times. “Mmm?”

  “Come back to me,” she begged.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  She kissed me softly. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” Bec let me guide her until she was lying on her stomach and I gently drew her arms up above her head, then lowered myself until her body was covered by mine. She let out a soft exhalation as I began a slow, thorough worship, reminding myself of all the things she willingly gave to me. God I loved
her body, all womanly curves and soft skin. I could spend hours exploring her, letting my hands and mouth roam to all her hidden places. My places. They were mine. She was mine.

  She clutched the pillow tightly, moaning as my tongue traced the curve of her buttocks. My fingers dipped closer to her tantalizing wetness and I gave in, indulging myself by stroking her. Bec’s moan turned low and ever so sexy, turning the quiet hum of pleasure in my depths to a deep, dull throb. Without taking my hand away, I inched my way back up her body, leaving soft kisses over her back and shoulders.

  “I love it when you do that,” she murmured.

  I lightly bit her shoulder. “I know.” My fingers were still playing through her folds and teasing her clit, and with every stroke she panted and twitched under me.

  “Know what else I love?” Bec came up on her elbows, twisting around slightly to face me. Though I had a fairly good idea, I shook my head, wanting her to say it. She continued hoarsely, “I love it when you finger fuck me.” Unlike me, Bec rarely used profanity and when she did it was wielded with precision. The things she said in bed egged me on like nothing else, and she knew it.

  I groaned. She was so wet that two fingers slid into her with only the barest push. Bec exhaled loudly and spread her legs for me, arching her back. I withdrew and thrust again, deeper. “Like this?”

  Her only response was another moan. I straddled the back of her thigh, desperate for friction, and with every thrust inside her, I ground myself against the smooth skin of her leg. My abundant wetness coated her, and I slipped an arm under her armpit, reaching around to cradle her breast while I fucked her.

  Bec clenched tight around my fingers, and I felt the familiar fluttering of her muscles coupled with the hitch in her breathing that meant she was close to climax. With effort, I stilled my fingers and Bec exhaled sharply, her frustration clear. She bent her head and bit my forearm. “Tease,” she gasped.

  I smiled against her skin, pressing open mouth kisses to her neck. “Can I lick you?” I mumbled against her skin. “I want you to come in my mouth.”

  Bec managed a strangled, desperate, “Please.”

  I withdrew carefully and repositioned myself so I could turn her onto her back. Her skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat, nipples plump and so delicious I couldn’t help but take one then the other into my mouth. Her hands came to my face, holding me in place as I licked and sucked her breasts, remembering every centimeter of them. Bec squirmed underneath me, pushing herself up into me, painting her wetness onto my skin.

  Unhurriedly, I made my way down her body and pulled one of her legs over my shoulder, spreading her wide. I loved her like this, so open and needing, unashamed in her desire. Her hand tightened in my hair, pushing my head to guide me, and I had to suppress a low growl as I took her in my mouth. I’d never considered myself to be a particularly jealous person but when we were making love, I often felt a fierce sort of possessiveness layered on top of all my other emotions.

  Now, with everything else in my head, I felt I might come apart. I slid a hand between my thighs, stroking myself furiously, and when Bec’s breathing rose and her cries reached the exact pitch I knew heralded her imminent climax, I let myself fall over the edge with her. It was a pleasant enough release, but not earth-shattering, and somehow I felt better for that. I shouldn’t have a bone-melting orgasm when I hadn’t allowed her to touch me.

  Her grip in my hair was firm, almost rough, and once she’d finished shuddering, she released me to let the hand drift down to stroke my face. Bec drew in a long, rejuvenating breath then murmured in a low, throaty voice, “You are so fucking sexy when you come.” There was no trace of upset or annoyance that I’d finished myself off, or that aside from kisses she’d barely touched me except to tangle fingers in my hair, or lightly caress my face and neck.

  She kept caressing my skin and I closed my eyes, focusing on the brief moment as we’d climaxed together, when I’d felt like we were back where we were meant to be. Connected. Existing together in the same place at the same time, instead of me trying to stay tethered to the earth while Bec tried to hold on to me. It was nothing more than a tiny pinpoint of light in the dark, but nevertheless it was still light. It was a fragment of hope that maybe things would be okay.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rebecca

  Moments after I’d finished lunch—eaten at my desk while working through a stack of paperwork—I was paged. MVA, multiple vehicles with one entrapment who’d arrested while they were cutting him free, one coming in without vitals and three status-critical. Afternoon rounds would have to wait. So would more coffee. And returning Jana’s voicemail from early this morning.

  I raced toward the elevators and the continuation of what had already been a hectic, upsetting day. As I tried to do whenever overwhelmed, I focused on something pleasant—in this case, the promise of a nice evening out tonight with Sabine to celebrate our two-year anniversary.

  With practiced ease the head of triage directed the onslaught of paramedics. I donned disposable gown and gloves, going through the motions with mindless efficiency. One of my team was already in the room, bent forward at the waist with his arms dangling. It was a pose I knew well and adopted myself at least once a day in an attempt to alleviate a back sore from hours on my feet.

  I slipped on protective glasses. “Matt, how are you?”

  He straightened with an audible groan. “Rebecca. Can’t complain.” A pause and a half-hearted smirk. “Nobody listens.”

  I grinned at his standard response and resumed assessment of the casualties. Two passed by on gurneys, almost crashing into young James Felton jogging up the hallway. “Good afternoon, Doctor Keane,” he huffed, face red and sweat-sheened. “My apologies, I was coming to find you but you’d already gone.” Before I could answer, he went straight to work getting himself gowned up.

  Two male paramedics wheeled a casualty into the exam room. “Katie Housten, twelve-year-old female front-seat passenger, vehicle took the brunt of the impact on her side. Complained of abdominal pain. Altered consciousness at the scene, but pupils were equal and reactive. Then full loss of consciousness three minutes ago. BP eighty over fifty, respiration thirty-four, heart rate one-sixty, Glasgow coma score five. Compound tib fracture, cuts, abrasions and some nasty abdominal contusions.”

  I glanced up at the odd tone, noting right away the raised eyebrows and look of unease on the paramedic’s face. “Thank you. Let’s transfer one, two, three.” The girl was lifted onto the gurney and I opened her eyelids with my thumb and forefinger. Her eyes were dark brown and I could barely see her pupils. I swiped my light back and forth. “Pupils are reactive but not equal. Page neuro please.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  The usual sound of the working team was interrupted by a gasp and a low expletive. I turned sideways to glance down the length of the girl’s body, and was pulled up immediately by what I saw. Her clothing had been partially removed, and in addition to the large purple mark caused by the seatbelt and internal bleeding, her barely-adolescent torso and arms were marked by dozens of fading bruises, uneven scars and small circular marks—some raw red wounds, some older. Everyone was suddenly very still and silent.

  Finally, Matt spoke, revulsion touching every word. “They aren’t…is that?”

  The muscles in my jaw quivered as I answered, “Yes, I think so.” Her injuries were consistent with long term physical abuse. I schooled my face to a calm expression. Child Protective Services would be notified and the police would be involved. My simple case just got a whole lot more involved. And my day just got a whole lot longer.

  “Christ,” Matt muttered.

  “What is it?” James asked timidly from behind me.

  I turned around. “Doctor Felton, once we’ve finished here, you’re going to learn the protocol for making a report to CPS.” The breath I took didn’t reach the bottom of my lungs. I caught the eye of one of the nurses. “Gwen, I need you to document everything to the letter. And pa
ge pediatrics too, please. Quickly.”

  After a few hours in surgery, we sent Katie Housten to ICU to monitor a brain bleed associated with her skull fracture. It was only when I’d finished my afternoon rounds with James that I realized with dismay just how close it was to the end of my shift. And how much I still had to do.

  “Rebecca?”

  I stopped and leaned against the wall, waiting for Vanessa to catch up. Still in scrubs and cap, she rushed over to ask breathlessly, “I’m glad I caught you. I’m just about to go up and check on Katie Housten. Have you done post-ops?”

  “Not yet. I’m running a little behind,” I explained wearily. “I asked them to keep me updated, and she’s stable.”

  Felton made a noise like he was about to expand on my explanation, then at Vanessa’s withering stare, he melted away around the corner.

  “Frightening our residents, tsk,” I said good-naturedly once he was out of sight.

  “Please, that was nothing. Besides, it makes them tough. Or have you forgotten what it was like?” She smiled and gave an exaggerated shudder. “I don’t know how I made it with my attendings pulling me up for everything, including how loudly I walked. I mean, of all the things to criticize me for…” Absently she pulled her scrub cap off, shaking her head as if shaking the memory of her residency away. “Have you heard from CPS?”

  “Not yet. Apparently they’re on their way.” In CPS-speak, on their way usually meant any time in the next four or five hours. And that was almost an hour and a half ago. I was going to be cutting it fine to get out of here and home in time for our anniversary dinner date. I rubbed a hand over my face as though I could expunge my mental fatigue.