by Nikki Sex
Tonight I’m going to quit resisting and put myself in Renata’s hands. Renata knows me. She makes it safe for me to communicate.
If I'm capable of facing my demons, it'll be with her.
Renata holds a deck of cards in the palm of her open hand. “OK,” she says. “This is how we’ll do it.” She hands me half the deck. “Take the card that’s on the top of your pack and flip it face up on the table.”
I flip my card over. It’s a ten of hearts. Renata flips her top card to land nearby. It’s a two of spades.
“Your card is higher, so you win,” she says.
I arch an eyebrow in query. “What do I win?”
“We’re playing ‘Truth or Dare.’ You get to ask me a question or give me a dare. I get to decide which.”
“OK,” I say.
She gives me a teasing smirk. “Just ask me, truth or dare?”
My eyes narrow. “Fine. Truth or dare?”
At my compliance, Renata shoots me a playful, heart-stopping smile. My breath catches. For a moment, every thought in my head disappears. Her innate goodness soaks into me, relaxing my hard edges. Just being near her warms my heart and soothes my soul.
The woman is beautiful, inside and out.
“Hmm,” she murmurs cheerfully, unaware of everything that’s been going through my mind. “I’ll take truth. Now you ask me a question and I will have to answer it honestly.”
I say nothing, remaining silent for a long, long time.
I want to know so many things about her. What shall I ask first? Was she a prostitute when she lived on the street? Just how experienced is she? What is she ashamed of? But then I stop to consider—what if she asks me those same questions? I don’t even know how many prostitutes I’ve had. And if she asks me what I’m ashamed of?
I swallow hard. Fuck, no. There’s no way I want to bring that up.
Minutes pass. Renata waits patiently until I come up with a question.
“Truth,” I finally say once I’ve found my tongue. “Have you ever been in love? Who with and when?”
A grim frown mars her face—I’ve surprised her. Now, it’s her turn to take a few moments to gather her thoughts.
“Yes,” she says quietly, taking in a deep breath. “And ouch! You asked a toughie for my first question.” Her laugh is brittle and humorless. She shakes her head sorrowfully. “And here I was going to go easy on you.”
Her response surprises me. I thought I was going easy on her, but I don’t tell her that.
Renata bites her thumbnail for a bit and averts her gaze. When her eyes return to mine, she regards me with a subdued and serious air. “My first love was Jamie, my foster brother who died. My second love was André, who saved me…”
There’s a long pause as she considers what she’s going to say next. “And I feel something for you, Grant. You’re seriously sexy, but it’s much more than that. What I feel for you is definitely love—or at the very least, a strong sense of connection and affection.”
Time stops in bizarre moment of unreality.
What?
Heat rises in my face as a blast of adrenaline, sheer panic and euphoric pleasure rocket through my veins. I force myself to stay perfectly still. I don’t move or even open my mouth to reply, as an avalanche of emotions cascade through me.
I have a strange impulse to laugh—or cry—I’m not sure which. Maybe both.
Instead, I remain silent.
Connection. Affection… and love. The very idea of love makes me break into a cold sweat. I don't know what love is.
A ridiculous number of thoughts race through my mind. I want Renata so badly that I ache for her. Is that love? Yet, I'm not worthy of her. I can't cuddle… I’m afraid to touch her. I can't make love without ending up feeling sick afterwards. She should have so much more than I could ever give her. I want to be deserving, but I’m such a mess. Why does she want me? She should have a whole man—an unscarred man. Shit.
Moments pass.
I notice Renata intentionally ignores what she must see as my hugely obvious reaction. Thank God. I appreciate that more than she can know.
Instead of talking about it, she turns her face down toward the table and flips another card. It’s a queen of hearts. How fitting.
I flip a jack of spades—a knave, also appropriate. She wins.
“Truth or dare,” she says and her eyes are bright with anticipation.
“Dare,” I say, unwilling to risk exposing any of my multitude of embarrassing truths.
“Take off your shirt,” she says surprisingly quickly, as if she’s been waiting for the chance to make this request.
I flinch in surprise. I never take my shirt off around other people. Nobody sees my tattoos. They’re private and they’re mine.
Renata senses my resistance like a piranha scenting blood in the water. “Aha! You don’t want to!” she chortles.
I can only assume that since I made her confess something uncomfortable for her, she’s pleased it’s now her turn to make me squirm.
I school my face to remain neutral, although my lips twitch—holding back a smile at her excessive and somewhat unholy glee.
Resigned, I sigh and begin to unbutton the cuffs on my shirt, and then the buttons down the front. Renata watches my every move in eager anticipation. Feeling her eyes hard upon me, I finally throw my shirt down on the floor, exposed and self-conscious, too aware of her presence.
“Good Lord,” she whispers, her face alive with awe and excitement. She looks as though she’s just had a spiritual revelation.
I frown. “What?”
She blinks, swallows then peers at me with a sudden grin. “Holy Christ on a cracker, Grant! You are seriously built. You are so beautiful! Is that a six-pack? What does a man have to do to get one of those?”
Her enthusiasm captivates me. She’s cute and funny, but the subject of my exercise regimen isn’t really anything to laugh about.
I say nothing. What can I say?
How can I tell her about my paranoia concerning combat fitness? How do I explain that fear and uncertainty, rather than vanity, compels me to train? That the daily physical punishment I force myself to endure helps me maintain some illusion of control. It's how I keep on top of my demons, driving horrible thoughts from my head and unwelcome urges from my body?
I have a sudden, unexpected epiphany, blinding in its clarity. This is the triangle Renata was talking about.
Body. Mind. Spirit.
I have control of my body, my lust and my hungers. In controlling my body, I have better control of my mind. As for my badly tarnished soul? Well, who knows?
She leans in closer, intently checking out my tattoos. “So gorgeous. Colorful, too. I love them. Will you tell me about them, or do I have to wait to use a ‘Truth’ question?”
Her strong interest isn’t going to disappear anytime soon. I don’t see any way out of it. Why postpone the inevitable? Sighing, I get up and walk over to sit down on the bed beside her.
“Yay!” she says, grinning broadly.
I point to my right arm sleeve tattoo, made up mainly of an oak tree, a number of flowers, leaves and thorns. I trace the intricate branches and leaves. “The oak represents wisdom, strength and endurance. Flowers are there because I love my garden. The thorns are there because there's always bad and good together.” I snort. “I guess it’s to remind me to watch out for the bad things in life.”
“Can I touch it?” she asks tentatively.
Stiffening, I nod.
Her fingers begin to gently trace the oak tree. It's a wonderfully tantalizing soft caress. I close my eyes and bite back a moan. Sometimes—like now—I’m at ease with such an innocent touch. My pulse begins to drum at the scorching pleasure of feeling her soft fingers on my skin.
Stiff already, I immediately become hard as stone.
“I’ve never seen any tattoo this colorful,” she says. “Different shades of red, yellow, green, blue and black. It looks fantastic. What does this say? And thi
s?”
Her enthusiasm warms me. I trace the red lettering. “This says, ‘Fear is the mind killer.’ And this?” I point to dark blue letters. “It says, ‘Man's mind may be likened to a garden, which may be intelligently cultivated or allowed to run wild.’ I had them translated into Latin, as private messages to myself.”
Renata frowns, her expression pensive. “Tell me what they say again.”
I repeat myself and add, “The garden quote is by a man named James Allen. ‘Fear is the mind killer,’ comes from a book called Dune, by Frank Herbert. The hero goes through rough times as a boy. I kind of identified with him.”
“You compare your mind to a garden? That’s rather apropos for you, huh? Weed out bad thoughts and cultivate good ones. Good plan. It’s important for you to be in control of your thoughts and emotions, isn’t it?”
My lungs expand as I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. “Yes. I had some pretty major hate and anger issues when I was growing up. Fear, too, I guess. I was wild and defiant for a time and heading down a bad path.”
Her eyes sparkle. “You’re in complete control now.”
My lips curve into a self-mocking smile. “Mostly,” I say.
I’m thinking about my raging hard-on and how much effort I'm exerting to curb my more primitive impulses. I have to fight against a powerful urge to take her right now.
This is another reason why I keep away from women.
My body burns and throbs with unbearable need as raw hunger claws at my belly. I long to pounce upon her, tearing into her without restraint… like a wolf takes a lamb. I’m so desperate to give in to my primal urges, to ravish her, to spread her legs and fuck her hard and fast.
And right after that? After I climax?
Well, then I’ll be lost and empty, swiftly followed by feelings of disgust, panic and downright nausea. I'll need to leave—and quickly. It’s my dreaded run of shame. It takes place after a climax, unless I'm alone.
“What is this on the bicep of your other arm?”
I moisten my dry lips and give her a sheepish grin. “That’s the face of Thor, the God of Thunder. See? Here’s his hammer.”
Renata laughs and her eyes light with humor. “Why?”
I shrug. “This here’s a Christian cross.” I point to where it’s weaved in amongst the leaves of the oak tree. “When you’re in a battle zone fighting for your life, you kind of want to cover your bases, I guess.”
Her grin fades as the thought of war sobers her.
“Thor is usually depicted as an honorable man, associated with storms, oak trees, strength and the protection of others. You’d be surprised by how many service men and women have Thor tattoos or wear his hammer as a charm around their necks.”
“I see.” She tilts her head. “Thank you so much for showing me.” She grins. “I’ve been dying to get a look at those tats since the first day I met you.”
“Oh?” I ask, confused. “How did you know about my tattoos?”
“I could see just the hint of this one here,” Renata brushes her soft fingers gently along the top of my right shoulder, “when I ripped the buttons off your shirt, remember?”
My jaw clenches, my groin does, too. “I remember,” I say in a hoarse voice.
I stare into her unblinking blue eyes. There’s that intense bond we have again, making its presence known. I swear I can see her every thought and emotion clearly, as if I were reading a novel. Renata draws me in.
I love the way she looks at me.
Renata wants me.
Damned if I know why anyone would want me, especially someone as perfect as she is. Yet, she does.
Until this moment, I never realized how much I want to be wanted. I want to be needed by her as much as I need her.
My erection hardens even further, which seems almost impossible at this point. I'm throbbing just thinking about it.
“When you tore my buttons?” I say, in a voice I barely recognize as my own. It's breathy and harsh with lust. I can hear my own ragged breathing.
“If I live to be a hundred, that is one moment of my life that I’ll never, ever forget.”
Chapter 10.
“Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it.
― Brené Brown
~~~
Renata Koreman
Thanks to our ‘Truth or Dare’ card game, I’m now down to wearing only my panties. Grant is—praise the Lord—totally naked.
Since the moment I met him, I’ve been fantasizing non-stop, imagining what he looks like without his clothes. Believe me, I’m not in the least disappointed.
Grant’s big sexy body, his fascinating tattoos and his dark compelling eyes are such turn-ons. I’m aroused by the masculine scent of him, his soft Texas drawl, his slow, deep voice and the well-considered things he says.
The man utterly captivates me, especially when he smiles. Kind and courteous, he’s a Southern gentleman through and through. I love everything about him, even his flaws.
Just the thought of Grant and his powerful maleness makes me damp with desire.
I was worried about how to move forward with him, but our little card game has been such a fantastic icebreaker, full of sexual tension and flirty fun. We’re finding out so much about each other and now we’re both almost completely naked.
‘Truth or Dare,’ as a prelude to sex—especially for someone with Grant’s history, is a perfect idea—if I do say so myself.
So far, Grant’s discovered my longing to visit Paris, my wish to meet UN Women Goodwill Ambassador, Emma Watson, and I’m a Libra—my birthday is October 3rd.
I now know Grant's favorite color is green, his first childhood crush was on Annabeth (a girl in grade school who never even knew he existed), and he’s a Gemini, born June 1st. He says he’s never been in love.
“Truth,” I say, after losing the last card toss with a seven of diamonds to Grant’s ten of spades.
Grant’s chest rises as he sucks in a deep breath. “Have you ever worked as a prostitute?” he asks.
I burst out laughing at his question—more from surprise than humor. It’s obvious that he’s been working up the nerve to ask me that one.
“Why would you think that? Because I lived on the street as a teenager?”
“Yes,” he replies. His cheeks tinge pink with embarrassment, but he doesn’t look away from me or show any other form of discomfort. “Every prostitute I’ve gone to worked the streets.”
I tilt my head, studying him for a few beats and smile. “My, my, I sense a story. First, the answer is no. I’ve never worked as a prostitute. However, I have had sex with many. I know for you, sex has largely had negative connotations. For me it’s always been a playful, loving connection. It’s the most fun you can share with someone you like.”
“I’m sorry I asked you that,” he says apologetically.
“Don’t be. I'm not offended. It’s a valid question. So… um… are you going to tell me about the prostitutes or do I have to use a ‘Truth’ question for that?”
He averts his gaze, studying the gently moving curtains in his open window for a long silent minute.
“Childhood…” he stops, clears his throat and then starts again, “Events in my childhood made me think I was a monster. These events… um, they turned me off sex. I’ve never dated or had a relationship with a woman.”
He pauses, meets my eyes and adds, “I’ve only ever experienced sex with prostitutes… and now with you.”
Chin up, Grant stares at me as if in challenge. Is he waiting for condemnation, perhaps? There’s a small flare of anxiety in his eyes. Does he expect my disapproval? I’ll bet he’s worried I’ll judge him—but he hopes I won’t.
“Wow,” I say, allowing genuine awe to fill my voice. “Thank you for telling me that, Grant. I'm honored you shared that with me. I have the deepest respect for you. In fact, my opinion where you’re concerned couldn’t be higher.”
Grant shows no reaction
and he says nothing more. Have my words affected him at all?
It’s when he’s entirely unemotional like this that I worry. I wish I knew what was going through his mind. Does he think confiding in me was a mistake? Is he worried that admitting imperfection is a sign of weakness? Maybe he’s like me and simply cannot accept a compliment.
“Disclosing a difficult truth takes real courage,” I tell him. “Only the strongest among us are willing to risk that kind of personal exposure. You’re not a weak man, are you? And you’re certainly no coward.”
His lips part and his eyebrows rise. OK, now I can see I’ve surprised him.
I frown. “What? Did you think I’d despise you?”
“It was a possibility.”
“Fucking hell,” I curse vehemently. “In the scheme of things, meeting your needs with prostitutes is no big deal. Now, raping someone—that is something I would judge you for. You’d need to make amends to the victim and go to jail for doing something like that. You haven’t molested anyone, have you?” I ask. I don’t see that kind of behavior as remotely possible in him, but still…
His face instantly tightens—there’s true rage behind his eyes. “Prostitutes,” he snaps, shooting his reply back to me faster than a pitcher in major league baseball game. “I always use prostitutes and I pay them well.”
Grant may have been a victim at one time, but not anymore. His body is taut, his fists clench. Something raw and violent radiates behind his no-nonsense glower. No matter what happened to Grant as a child, he absolutely won’t take shit from anyone ever again.
He’s trying to hide it to some degree, but my question has enraged him.
I hate confrontation and angry people frighten me. My adrenaline spikes at Grant’s fury, but he doesn’t really scare me. Why is that? André would probably call it female intuition.
For whatever reason, I know Grant would never hurt me.
I can’t help but admire his ability to vehemently reject something with which he doesn’t agree. How does he do that? I’m afraid to hurt or embarrass people. Rejection kills me and I have a pathological craving for love and acceptance. Thanks to André, I know my own brand of crazy. To a large degree, I’m able to work around this shit.
