I’ve waited as long as I can. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. She answered a couple texts, but was really short. She is pissed at me, I know that. I even understand it, but have no idea how to fix it. What can I possibly do?

I could be there. I could hold her and try to work through this horrible disaster. It’s a tragedy. I can’t even imagine what she is going through. Jake told me to give the girls time, and that Maria was on it. Maria is helping her process and cope, so I’m not needed. But I want to be. It’s because of me that she is hurting so badly. I want to fix it.

Fuck it.

I stopped by the store for the basics. It hadn’t been that long since I had a woman to contend with. I picked up what I thought were necessary supplies and various offerings of peace, including a variety of chocolates. Resolute in my decision to help ease her pain, I knocked on the door of the little house where I knew she lived. Jake was helping me out. As was Maria. They cleared the way for me to make my grand gesture.

Taking a deep breath, and praying she wouldn’t slam the door in my face or push me down the tiny cement porch, I knocked.

When I heard the doorknob turning, my heart stopped in my chest, and my breath swooshed out of my lungs.

She opened it up a few inches, her face, devoid of makeup, broke my heart. She looked miserable.

“Are you okay?” I asked. It was not what I wanted to say. I knew it was stupid and I had told myself not to ask that inane question, but it was out of my mouth before I could stop it.

Her answer was a dull stare, a slight raise of her right shoulder and an, “I don’t know.”

“Can I come in?”

She sighed, but opened the door and allowed me in. I wanted to look around. It felt very intimate to enter her domain, and I wanted to savor this next big step for us, but now was not the time. She stood there in a pair of black leggings that showcased her shapely legs, and a pink t-shirt with the breast cancer ribbon emblazoned on the front. Her feet were bare, revealing chipped blue polish.

I debated what to do. Did I hug her? Offer words of comfort? I didn’t know what those were, but I was sure I could think of something.

Her eyes met mine, and my heart broke.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “Please.”

I don’t know what I was begging for. Forgiveness? Understanding? Her?

She looked down at her feet, then back at me. “It’s not your fault. We knew. We knew we were playing with fire. I guess I’m the one that got burned.”

I couldn’t stop myself. I had to hold her. She looked so young, so fragile standing there, completely stripped of all defenses. I could literally feel pain in my heart witnessing her going through something so awful.

“Can I hold you?”

She nodded, and I saw the tears pooling the moment I stepped close to her, putting my arms around her waist and my head on hers. Her arms came around me, and I felt the very moment she let go of the pain and stress. She was sobbing now, silently.

I wanted to shield her and protect her from all of the pain and emotion she was feeling. I did the only thing I knew how—I reached down and lifted her up, cradling her in my arms like a small child, before walking to the couch and sitting down with her in my lap. I held her while she wept.

As she cried, I began to truly understand the consequences of my desire to have her. If I would have kept my distance, she would not be in this position.

“I’m sorry, Tessa. I don’t know how many times I can say it, but I am so, truly sorry for putting you in this position,” I told her, again, hoping somehow my apologies would erase her pain.

“It’s not your fault,” she mumbled, her face pressed against my chest.

I sighed; it kind of was.

“I have no idea what I’m going to tell my mom. She is going to be so disappointed. I’m pissed about being expelled, but it isn’t the end of the world. It’s telling my mom I failed that is tearing me up. How can I look at a woman who has fought so long and hard to get me here, only to have me drop out at the end?”

She hiccupped. I saw a box of tissue on a small side table and stretched my arm out to grab it. It was nearly empty, which made my guilt worsen.

“Here,” I said, gently pushing the box against her arm.

She reached out and took several tissues and wiped her face. “Sorry. This is so embarrassing,” she grumbled.

“Don’t be sorry and it isn’t embarrassing. I would probably do the same thing in your shoes.”

She laughed. “I seriously doubt you would cry while sitting on someone’s lap.”

Tags: Claire Adams Erotic
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