Counterfeit Love

It was nearly a decade after the fact. I'd done everything my therapist had demanded. But these sensations--and the memories attached to them--were as fresh as the day I finally emerged from that basement after months of merciless torture.

"Oh, God," I hissed, after stopping on the last step, looking around, gaze immediately going toward the darkest corner, where it landed on the hideous flair-studded, multi-colored chair.

I was sure I had told Finch to get rid of it.

But, now that I thought about it, I wasn't sure he'd actually told me he had hauled it to recycling.

No, I think his words had been something about how he'd 'found a place for it.

Not a lie, precisely.

But proof that I never could get anything past Finch. He knew I hadn't yet conquered the basement because he knew that if I had made it down the stairs, I would have come rushing back up, lecturing him about getting rid of the chair once and for all.

"Traitor," I mumbled as Forge knocked into my legs on his way over toward the chair. He'd spent a lot of his puppyhood curled up on those cushions. Until, of course, he had outgrown it.

Nostalgia was strong with this one, though, and he moved over toward it, giving it a good sniff, doing a few turns, then lying down in front of it, his giant head resting on the seat cushion.

"I really appreciate your moral support, bud," I told him, taking a couple deep breaths, breathing in enough oxygen to make my face feel buzzy, then charging forward, making my way across the cement floor, reminding myself that the old stains on the floor weren't from blood, weren't evidence of pain. This was a normal house in a normal neighborhood. We'd even met the previous owners. And they were normal people. I'd checked into it to make sure because I couldn't help myself.

The washer and dryer were situated at a far corner with a massive utility sink next to them, directly under a set of small windows.

Half of the work was done, I reminded myself, pulling the washer lid open, dumping the entire basket over top of it, reaching a bit frantically for the detergent. I didn't know if I poured a normal amount or half the bottle, all I knew was it was in there, and then I picked a random button, closed the lid, and bolted up the stairs.

And ran smack into Finch, sending him slamming back into the wall, and me slamming into his chest.

"Fuck, angel, happy to see me, huh?" he asked, arms wrapping around me, holding me tight, making light of my clear anxiety. And he'd been with me long enough to recognize it. "You're gonna give me a big ego greeting me like this."

"You already have a big ego," I informed him, pulling back, shooting him a look that he just smiled at.

"What? Me? I am the humblest of men."

"Yeah, practically a candidate for sainthood."

"Sainthood," he mused, arms sliding down my back. "I don't think I'd be able to do this if I were a saint," he said, hands sinking into my ass, giving it a squeeze. "Hm," he said, eyes dancing.

"Hm what?"

"Finally ran out of panties, huh?" he asked, smile devilish. His hands shifted up to the waistband of my leggings, slipping under, grabbing my bare ass, kneading my flesh a bit.

It shouldn't have been sexy.

But I could feel desire pooling inside, building, demanding release.

Finch's fingers slipped inward, moving to stroke up my cleft, rubbing my clit.

"Wanna try to tell me again that you're not happy to see me?" he asked, fingers plunging inside me, making my thighs clench, my muscles wanting more.

"I'm always happy to see you," I admitted. Because it was true. Because I felt no insecurity admitting my feelings to him.

"Yeah?" he asked, thrusting lazily, making my hips wiggle around, needing more. "Know what makes me happy, dollface?" he asked.

"What?"

As an answer, his fingers left me, hands pulling down my leggings as he shifted me against the wall, ass out toward him.

There was the sound of a zipper.

And then he was inside me.

Making me cry out, my hand slapping against the wall.

"Yeah, that," he told me, sounding wholly pleased with himself. As he should be.

His hands sank into my hips, yanking them outward further, keeping his grip there as he started to thrust.

Hard.

Fast.

We were far, far beyond every sex session needing to be slow and sweet and loving.

As my body grew accustomed to him, my trust continued to grow until there wasn't a molecule in my body, or corner of my spirit, that didn't believe I could give him every single part of me. And he would treat it well, that he would even make it better.

He'd made me better.

And, in many ways, I had made him better.

"That's the beautiful thing about relationships," Dr. Clark had told me when I'd shared that revelation with her.