Abuse

by Nikki Sex

  What is this crazy pull, this strong attraction to him?

  It’s not simply lust.

  In this moment, Grant is in complete control, yet I’ve seen him shattered by guilt and despair. I’ve felt the anguish in his blue-grey eyes. He hides it from the world, but inside he’s vulnerable, lost and uncertain.

  Maybe I’m drawn to him because he’s broken.

  Grant needs me. I long to help him.

  Always courteous, Grant easily gets his way. I adore the way he strides down the aisles with grace and purpose, as if he owns the place.

  What if he treated me that way?

  What if he behaved as though he owned and possessed me?

  Visions of our passionate time together flood my mind. My nipples harden and my chest, neck and face heat. I close my eyes for a moment, remembering how he filled and stretched me. How satisfying it was to feel the solid length of his erection—every rigid inch of him deep inside of me—his powerful body pressing against mine.

  “Can I help you?”

  Caught in my erotic reverie, I spin around to face the young saleswoman, feeling my cheeks heat. “Um… No thank you. I’m with him,” I say, pointing to Grant.

  “OK, then,” she says with a bright smile, a nod, and an assessing stare at Grant. I can tell, scars or not, she thinks he’s a hottie too.

  Grant strides toward me with a pleased grin. “I think we’re done here,” he says. To my complete surprise, he places his hand on the small of my back, and guides me to the checkout area.

  Jesus, I feel his heated palm like a brand. I shut my eyes for a moment, instantly imagining that big hand of his between my legs.

  I’m so bad!

  My face flushes, not with embarrassment—with desire. Thankfully, it takes a couple of minutes to walk there and I get my control back before I arrive.

  “Well I’ll be! I just can’t get over that cat of yours,” the cheerful, auburn-haired cashier says in her broad Texas accent, as she rings up Grant’s tab. “He’s happy to sit right there on your shoulder. Who’d have thought?”

  “He’s pretty special,” I force myself to say, while scratching Mitten under his chin. A buzz of anxiety is always with me whenever I’m around strangers. Even though some people can’t hide their shock over seeing a cat in the store, no one seems to mind that I’ve brought Mitten shopping.

  I think this is an example of Texas manners. Either that or they were all so blown away by Grant’s tornado-like rush through their store they never thought to question Mitten’s presence.

  “Don’t you worry, now,” the woman assures us. “We’ll have our people deliver these things right on down to y’all today.”

  “We’ll expect them by three, ma’am,” Grant says, his polite comment a command.

  “Yes, sir. They won’t be late.”

  Grant speaks with economy, saying little, but every word he says is important.

  I imagine other things he might say in private, such as “Spread your legs,” or “Let me watch you come, Renata.” Immediately, my pussy clenches, as a spike of sensual awareness shoots straight to my heated core.

  Holy shit, girl! Cool down.

  Chapter 5.

  “I'm not telling you it's going to be easy—I'm telling you it's going to be worth it.”

  ― Art Williams

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  Grant and I leave the store, pleased with our purchases for Briley. Crib, blankets, formula, bottles, clothes, toys, bibs—we really have everything we need. Ever the perfect gentleman, he opens the car door for me, as usual.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  As I take my seat and buckle my seatbelt, I inhale a lungful of new car smell. Grant steps away to talk to someone a few cars down. What’s going on?

  Peeking over and listening carefully, I hear him explaining something to an elderly woman in his low, slow drawl. It sounds as though he’s giving her directions.

  White-haired and heavily wrinkled, wearing dark, horn-rimmed glasses, the woman he’s talking to appears to be about a hundred and fifty years old, if I counted her rings correctly. I shouldn’t make jokes like that, not even in my mind. Sweet thing, once she was young and attractive. Now even her wrinkles have wrinkles.

  Whatever he’s saying, it’s obvious she isn’t getting it. I lean closer, straining to hear what they’re discussing. As far as I can tell, the woman keeps repeating the same questions again and again. From time to time, she seems to drift off, rambling on about… her children?

  She’s nodding and smiling up at Grant like crazy. Grant’s voice is easy-going and kind—he’s doesn’t try to brush her off or rush her in the least. I squint my eyes and see him with a pen and paper. A broad grin instantly splits my face.

  Really? Is he drawing a map for her?

  People often are so frantically absorbed by their own crap that they come across as uncaring. In a rush, they rarely take time to notice others, let alone help them. All too often the elderly become invisible.

  Grant’s so extraordinarily patient! Seeing his respect and consideration for this older woman makes my heart warm.

  “Thank you so much, young man,” I hear her call, as Grant climbs into the driver’s seat next to me. He probably made her day. I know he's made mine.

  Grant offers no information about what he’s just done—I practically have to pry it out of him. Upon questioning, he confirms my observations.

  Yes, the woman was lost. Yes, she needed directions. Yes, she had trouble understanding when he tried to explain the route. No, of course she didn’t annoy him.

  I can’t stop grinning. Apparently, Grant is kind to old women, children, his brother, his brother’s wife and me. André’s rather fond of him and Mitten likes him too.

  What is this guy, a boy scout?

  “Her name is Mary,” he says about the elderly woman he just helped. “She and her husband have been married for fifty-five years. They have twelve grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. Isn’t that something?”

  “It sure is.”

  Grant puts on his seatbelt and presses the ‘engine start’ button on his car. The engine thrums to life with a low, sexy growl. You gotta love these new cars!

  “I think Mary needs to have her eyes checked,” he muses in a slow, pensive drawl. “She didn’t even flinch when she saw my scars.”

  “A woman her age knows what really matters, Grant,” I tell him. “She looks old enough to have gone through the Great Depression and both World Wars!”

  Grant smiles and I laugh.

  “Besides,” I add, “with the long life she’s lived, I’m sure she has plenty of scars of her own. You place too much importance on those scars.”

  Grant says nothing. Is he thinking that over? He turns his head to check for oncoming traffic before backing out of the parking space.

  “Anyway, I think you’re a handsome guy,” I add.

  His lips twitch. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Maybe.” I flutter my eyelashes in an exaggerated manner.

  He grins.

  “By the way, I thought you were amazing in Buy, Buy, Baby,” I say. “All that confidence and unflagging vigor—whew! I was impressed.”

  He releases the parking brake and turns toward me. Surprise, disbelief and confusion are apparent in his expression. “I was just getting stuff done.” He shrugs. “We need to have this all set up before child welfare arrives with Briley this afternoon.”

  “That’s a big part of your charm. You have no idea of how powerful and in control you were, do you?”

  A frown mars his face. I can see he doesn’t understand. His long, manly fingers curl around the wheel as he pulls out of the parking lot, into traffic. With those long legs and muscular, denim-covered thighs stretching out before him, he’s sexy as hell.

  “The thing is, Grant,” I say, clearing my throat. “What you did in there is an example of the real you. You didn’t have to think about
anything, did you?”

  “No.”

  “You just did just as you wanted—what had to be done.”

  “Yes.”

  “You weren't self-conscious, uptight or preoccupied because you were so focused on the task,” I say. “I’ve never seen you like that before. It was seriously sexy.”

  He gives me a doubtful smile. Grant has no idea what I’m talking about.

  “Think about what it would be like to be that confident all the time—if you didn’t second-guess, overthink or doubt yourself. Imagine if you didn’t filter what you wanted to do through a bunch of mental shit. Can you picture how different your life would be?”

  He inhales sharply and sighs. “You’re talking about sex, right?”

  “Absolutely! I’m talking about sex, about touching and openly saying exactly what you feel. We’re discussing the possibility of you, ‘being yourself’ and being who you really are all of the time, but especially when you’re having sex.”

  He snorts and shakes his head. “It’s much harder than you’d think.”

  I raise my eyebrows and give him a teasing, calculating look. “I imagined what it would be like to go to bed with the real you, the confident, go-for-it, and take-what-you-want part of you.”

  He slants me a look, as I pause to let that idea sink in.

  “I also thought about being able to hold you afterwards,” I add. “Cuddling up, my head on your chest—listening to your heartbeat and breathing you in. It would be heaven.”

  Just like that, there’s a jolt of raw sexual energy throbbing between us.

  That’s not all that’s throbbing, there’s a pulsing ache between my thighs. My breasts feel heavy and tight—every bump in the road makes them tingle as my nipples rub against the fabric of my bra. I press my legs together to try to assuage my need.

  I can’t stop thinking of the toe-curling, sheet-ripping, screaming hot sex we had.

  I’m drawn to him in every way imaginable. Does he feel the same attraction? I hope so. The man is so damned built and sexy. I can’t help but fantasize about him kissing me, touching me... and especially fucking me.

  Focus on him. Be in the present. Be the counselor. This is not about you.

  But holy hell, I’m only human and right now I’m needy and greedy with lust. My mind keeps skipping backwards, reliving the sensation of having his hard body on top of me, his cock stretching and filing me.

  The mere thought of him makes me burn with desire.

  How soon can I have him deep of inside of me again?

  Grant has spent his life being guarded and closed off. Just now, he’s trying to conceal his lust with an impassive expression on his handsome features. Yet, his lips are parted, his breathing has quickened and the outline of his massive hard-on, trapped inside his Levis, is hard to miss. Of course, I'd be much more apt to miss it if I stopped looking at his groin!

  A streetlight turns red and we stop. Grant meets my gaze for a moment, but quickly looks away.

  “We did the sex part—” he exhales and pauses for a long while.

  “Mmm?” I encourage him.

  I wait patiently.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  Getting someone to speak about uncomfortable subjects requires patience. He’s thinking it over. The light changes to green, and Grant remains silent, continuing to drive for a bit.

  “I don’t like how I feel… after,” he says. “I’d love to be able to hold you…”

  “Yes?” I say, encouraging him to go on.

  Grant says nothing. His back straightens and his muscles tighten as tension begins to coil in his body.

  I don’t want to push him. I could freak Grant out so easily, and that would make our sessions more difficult.

  For one long moment, I remember how painful it was for me those first days when I moved in with the mysterious André Chevalier. I was a timid wreck. Anxious and frightened, André never even made me leave the safety of my room.

  “I can’t do it, Renata. I wish I could—but I can’t,” he finally bites out.

  “We have time,” I reassure him. “When someone is brave enough to address a difficult issue, they always start with unbearable discomfort. That’s OK. It’s normal and exactly what you should expect. If your problems were simple, you would’ve solved them all long ago, right?”

  Grant gives me a sharp nod of agreement.

  “The fact that it’s tough for you will make your success so much sweeter,” I say encouragingly. “Why should something worthwhile, be easy?”

  Grant says nothing, but I can tell he’s listening.

  I shake my head. “We’ll figure it out, Grant. We’ll get through it together.”

  After a long silence, he says, “André told me to start at the ground floor, but what is the ground floor? I’m not even comfortable touching you. I have trouble simply holding your hand.”

  “I know, but that’s OK,” I say. “See? Just now, you spoke about the handholding issue. That's progress. You didn’t even try to talk to me about it before. You should feel good about that—I do. Today and tonight, we can try just a little casual touching. We can hold hands, lean against each other maybe, or put our hands on each other's shoulders. Nothing intense. We'll keep things G-rated… mostly.”

  I smile at that, because we are so going to go past 'G-rated' tonight, if I have any say at all. Hopefully, we'll head straight to 'MA-rated' due to adult themes, nudity, sexual content and coarse language.

  “I don’t know… if I can.”

  “Fine,” I say. “If that’s too tough, we can start by just looking at each other, all right? Whatever we do, we’re going to have some laughs, OK?”

  He glances over at me and I shoot him a bright confident smile. It’s easy because I am confident. I’ve had a ton of success with my surrogate clients. It isn’t too long a jump to imagine I’ll get there with Grant.

  “Fine.” His smile is wry, but there’s a glint of humor in his eyes.

  “No pressure,” I say. “I know how to make this easy and fun. We both deserve to have fun, right? How does that sound?”

  His relief is palpable as he exhales and says, “Good.”

  “You’ll get there, Grant.”

  His slow smile isn’t forced. “I’m beginning to think I just might.”

  I decide to give him a break and change the subject. “I love your car, by the way. It’s super-slick. What kind is it?”

  “It’s a Cadillac,” he says and his lips twitch up in a smile. There’s a flicker of amusement in his gorgeous grey eyes, but at least he doesn’t roll them. I’m acting out some sort of girly-girl stereotype, I guess. When it comes to cars, I haven’t got a clue.

  “So, sue me,” I reply snarkily to him. “I’m not a car person. How old is this one anyway?”

  “A couple of months.”

  I knew that. No one can mistake that new car smell. “André is nuts about cars, too.” I chuckle. “You boys and your toys.”

  Chapter 6.

  “If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need."

  ― Marcus Tullius Cicero

  ~~~

  Renata Koreman

  “Where to now?” I ask, after we make a quick stop at a gas station. Shifting restlessly in my seat, I push back the drumming need inside me.

  Grant’s biceps are huge… I want to touch them. His casual, long-sleeved shirt, rather than hiding his body, seems to enhance the muscles in his arms and shoulders. Fuck, I want to bite that tantalizing bit of bare flesh on his neck where the buttons end. I long to jump him over and over again, until we’re both sweating and limp with exhaustion.

  I surreptitiously glance down at his unflagging erection and desperately curb a bubble of laughter. I recall how he remained pulsing and hard inside of me, even after he came.

  “Limp” is a highly unlikely description when it comes to Grant’s penis. His entire body is hard.

  “We’re making a quick stop at the Whole Foods Market,�
� Grant says, as he smoothly navigates the road. The quiet engine of his high performance car hums in the background.

  “That’s fine.”

  “Maria, the lady who cooks and cleans for me, won’t be back until next week, so we’ll have to fend for ourselves.”

  “I can cook.”

  “You can?” he asks, slanting me a pitifully hopeful look while making a left-hand turn.

  “Yes,” I say with a grin. “I can clean, too.”

  “Forget cleaning.” He chuckles. “I’m much more interested in your cooking.”

  And I’m interested in seeing you naked, I think, but I say, “Have you ever had boeuf à la Bourguignonne? Also known as beef Burgundy, it’s made with garlic, onions and mushrooms.”

  “No beef?”

  “You made a joke,” I exclaim. “That was funny!”

  “Not that funny.” He says with a wry smile. “French stew sounds great. Can we have it for supper?”

  “Sure. It doesn’t take long to make. It’s prepared with beef braised in red wine, flavored with garlic, thyme, bay leaves and sage.”

  His forehead creases in a frown as he pulls into the grocery store parking lot. “I’m a recovering alcoholic, Renata, so I never drink. Am I right to assume the alcohol burns off during cooking?”

  “Not fully. We can buy dealcoholized wine to use instead.”

  “That’s good—but what about you? We can get you wine, beer, or whatever you want. I’m OK with that.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not much of a drinker,” I assure him. “André introduced me to the basics, but my father was a real prick and he used to drink all the time. Somehow that lessened my interest in the subject.”

  “I’m sorry about your father,” Grant says quietly, but he leaves it at that.

  I shrug. “Thank you.”

  I don’t want to talk about the asshole who’s given me my nightmares, my last name and half of my DNA. My reticence on this matter must be obvious as Grant changes the subject.

  “You sound as though you know your way around the kitchen,” he says. There’s a cute kind of hopefulness in his statement.