Page 105 of Badd Love
"That's not a deep cut, that's a classic banger."
He covered my mouth with a wet palm. "Hush, you."
I hushed.
Now that his erection had gone bye-bye, I was finding myself slowly relaxing, slowly releasing the guilt, slowly exhaling the sense of obligation and expectation. I breathed. I luxuriated. I wiggled my toes in the hot, scented water. I lay against Dane's chest and felt his breathing and the soft, slick firmness of his body behind mine and the gentle strength of his arms around me.
I felt his love radiating from him in palpable waves, and I soaked it up.
I didn't have to earn it.
He'd love me even if I couldn't suck him off every day—an unspoken but implicit expectation in my relationship with Damian. He never said it outright, but he found ways of making it clear that he needed to get off every day, and it was my responsibility to make sure that happened, and also, he just happened to prefer getting oral to having sex.
Maybe my relationship with Damian had been a little more uneven, if not exactly toxic, than I'd thought. I'd had to push through my discomfort with that act more often than I'd like to admit to myself—and I did for him. Because I cared for him. I wanted to make him happy.
But also…
Because he expected it.
It was insidious, though, the unspoken but clear sense of obligation.
I was free of that with Dane.
And I hadn't even realized I'd harbored that feeling until just now.
My god, I loved this man.
I lay in his embrace, content and happy and free of the dread of the past, free of the weight of obligation—whether imagined or real, because let's face it, it's entirely possible that I'd invented the expectation I felt with Damian, not that I was eager to confront my ex about it and find out. My heart swelled, filling and burgeoning with a lightness I couldn't describe, a bone-deep joy I couldn't entirely contain.
It needed expression.
Instead of acting on it right away, though, I held onto the feeling. Examined it, faced it, felt it, absorbed it.
I wanted to give Dane this sense of joy. I wanted him to—no, Ineededhim to know how much I loved him. I needed him to know how grateful I am for his patience, his understanding, his courage in the face of my craziness, his willingness to walk at my side even when I was actively trying to push him away.
"Why do you love me?" I asked. "What have I offered you other than problems?"
He didn't answer immediately, but I felt his attention and knew he was taking time to consider the question. I liked that. I knew I'd get the truth and not just something that sounded nice.
"I love how I feel when I'm with you," he said, after what felt like at least two minutes. "You make me feel interesting. Funny. Strong. Attractive." A sigh. "I might be wrong, and this may just be me, but sometimes it seems like there's this expectation on men to just be confident and feel good about themselves without ever being…I dunno. Validated? Like, we rarely get compliments, you know? Women tell each other all the time, ‘Oh you look so cute, I love your outfit, your hair looks so nice.’ Men tell their girlfriends and wives and sisters and moms that they look beautiful. It can be a platonic thing or a romantic thing. But unless I do something special, like accomplish something, no one really says anything complimentary to me. No one tells me I look nice just because—unless I’m wearing a suit or dressing up somehow. But I need validation, too. And you give that to me. You make me feel good about myself. You look at me like I matter. Sexually or not, you touch me in a way that makes me feel…wanted, and there's something vital about being touched nonsexually. Feeling wanted but not for sex, you know?"
"Oh, I know," I whispered. "Believe me."
"I love your sense of humor. You make me laugh. I always have fun when I'm with you, and I love that, too. You laugh at me—when I'm being an idiot, which I need, and when I'm being funny, and that makes me feel good."
"Dane—"
"Shush, I'm still answering your question," he said over my protestation. "I love how strong and brave you are."
"I'm not," I whispered.
"Yes, you fuckingare," he said, intensely enough it almost felt like a snap. "You fought for a better life for yourself, and you worked your ass off to get there. You fought like hell to overcome not just the shitty hand you were dealt in terms of family and home life, but the awful, evil, disgusting thing that was done to you. You didn't just overcome it, Lindsey, you did so without losing yourself."
"I don't know if I agree with that."
"Because you can't be objective about yourself, babe. You have PTSD. You're dealing with it. You've done the work to process, heal from, and cope with what was done to you. You're kind to others. You're generous. You may have bitterness and anger or whatever toward the fuckstain who abused you, but that's normal. You haven't let what one man did to you make you bitter and angry toward everyone, men especially, which would be totally understandable. Yeah, you may trust issues, but how could you not, when everyone in your life utterly failed you?""I…I guess I hadn't thought of it that way," I admitted.
"I could sit here and keep coming up with different things, Linz. But when it comes down to it, I love you because I love you. I love the person that you are, and I love the person I am with you. You don't need toofferme anything, even though you do."
