Secrets & Submission

I take him up on his offer, if only to please him so that when I have the courage to ask about Zander, he’ll share with me. A little give, a little take.

And so I spend my brief day with Damon ridding myself of a migraine brought on by the hard sobs of last night, but playing out the events without any remorse or regret. With a heavy yet slim pen dancing between my fingers, the ink flowing across the thick pages of the new journal, I daydream of him, but write stories of my childhood. Of what I know I missed, having to grow up so young. But also what I wish I could take back.

I’m far too close to the fireplace. Its dancing blue flames mesmerize me to the point where I haven’t realized how warm I am until the deep voice speaks from behind me.

"Damon said you have a new journal."

Even the physical heat surrounding me pales in comparison to what he does to me. Every inch of me is too hot when I lay eyes on him. More than likely it’s because his gaze rests on me.

“Did you write anything down today?”

How can he ask something so uninteresting when all I can imagine is picking up where we left off last night, with our hands searching for something to hold us steady and daring to lift my lips to his.

Lying on the hard herringbone floor with a pool of fabric at my feet and two of the cushions from the sofa, one for my head and the other supporting my shoulder, I prop myself up off the floor to stare up at him.

Zander towers over me, a dominating air surrounding him that’s only shown whispers of itself before.

“I wrote a few things.” I answer him out of respect once the weight of what he’s asked me sinks in fully. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Zander takes a step forward, his jeans rustling and when he takes a place next to me on the floor, I notice he’s taken his shoes off. His bare feet match the untamed man he is. Sitting cross-legged, and wearing a dark gray Henley, everything feels different between us. There’s no melody to dance to any longer. No notes to hide behind. I search his hazel eyes and find the fire dancing in the reflection.

“You don’t want to talk about what you wrote? Or you don’t want to talk about anything?” he questions so casually with an innocent expression on his handsome face, one would think his inquiry didn’t carry the weight of the world with it. The soothing crackle of the fire is the only distraction between us when I scoot forward and readjust some, sitting on my ass with my feet planted on the floor and bringing my knees into my chest.

“I think I could talk today, I just have boundaries.”

“Boundaries?” Zander repeats the single word and somehow it sounds sinful on his lips. All the tension evaporates, leaving behind a magnetic pull that I can’t resist. “We could discuss boundaries.” If I’m not mistaken, at his lips is the hint of a smirk, but he holds it back. “Is that what you want to talk about today? Boundaries?”

I search his expression for the answer to my unspoken thought: What type of boundaries are you referring to?

The devilish smirk he’d been trying to hide breaks through. And I find myself wearing a matching simper.

As I rise from the floor, eager to get away from the fire and what is now nearly stifling heat, I contemplate teasing him. Calling him out for the fact that this feels very much like flirting and significantly less like counseling. Just as the words are ready to slip from my lips, Zander stands alongside me, his right hand taking mine and his left bracing my elbow to help me rise.

I’ve had many social interactions, and I’ve learned a few important details about seemingly innocent touches. When a person makes contact with you, whether a hand on an elbow or a friendly hug, the longer the contact lingers, the more they want to fuck you. A quick hug and a hand releasing into the air once the connection begins to break, rather than slipping down the small of your back, is very good evidence there’s no sexual chemistry.

Which is not at all what happens right now.

The way Zander trails his fingertips along my forearm and then down my torso, splaying his hand against the small of my back as I stand, tells me everything I want to know. My wild heart beats rapidly. I’m not sure if it’s in protest, or if it’s simply come back to life, but for a moment, I’m caught. Trapped and unable to think of anything other than my heart’s existence.

Concern mars Zander’s face as he peers down at me, and I struggle to remember what we were even talking about. “Did I already take it too far?”

“Not at all.” My lower lip slips between my teeth as I struggle with whether or not I should add, I don’t believe you’ve gone far enough. I keep the thought to myself and turn my back to him to make my way to the sofa. “I just thought we should be comfortable for our session.”

There’s an undeniable electricity between the two of us. Again, I’m reminded of that dance I felt the first morning that we were alone together. I take one corner of the sofa, and Zander chooses a chair across the room, the one farthest away.

“I think we should start with confessions,” Zander begins.

“I’ve never been a fan of confessions,” I say, then nearly continue with a phrase that I’ve said a number of times in my life: “Confessions imply regret. I live my life with no regrets whatsoever.” But then I remember. I remember it all and every regret threatens to suffocate me until Zander tells me, “I’ve seen some videos and I have questions.”

“That’s your confession, that you’ve seen videos?”

A nagging thought pricks at the back of my mind. It was only last night I asked him not to look up any information on me, but the slight feeling of betrayal is quickly pacified.

“It was before last night,” he says, and vulnerability shines in his eyes. “I want to make sure you know that.” The relief is met with cautiousness. He didn’t tell me he knew before, but it’s obvious that he feels remorse.

The sofa protests as I pull my legs up, resting the balls of my feet on the cushion and leaning back into the pillow. “I appreciate you telling me.” The kindness between us doesn’t diminish the chemistry. Although I attempt a more casual stance by resting my head on the arm of the sofa, Zander remains professional.

“I want you to know that I meant it when I said I won’t look at your file, but I am damn curious and I’d like to speak freely with you.”