“Connor,” I plead, unsure of what exactly I’m pleading for. But something tells me he knows. He’s breaking me; forcing me to fight the ingrained part of myself that would never let someone I love do something that would hurt themselves, especially for me, and instead submitting—handing over my free will in the name of love.

“That’s it, baby. Let it go,” he coos as he pulls out slowly and thrusts back in, hard, hitting that spot once more. I shriek and can’t understand why I can’t seem to fight him. I want to. I want to argue and yell and scream at him for asking me to sit back, for using his body to manipulate me, but the fight in me gets caught on a sob. I’m crying, sobbing really, as he moves in and out of me, kissing me sweetly, his hand fisting my hair, gripping me in a firm but gentle way. The moment is brutal in the most profoundly exquisite way. I’m agreeing to his terms. I’m agreeing to let him do something that he has no business doing. And I’m agreeing to it because I’ve given myself to him. He owns me. And while it breaks my heart to lose my voice in this argument, giving myself to him this way is the most freeing feeling I have ever felt. He needs me to give myself to him this way. To trust him. And I love him so much, I’ve just handed it over.

I can feel his body tense as he moves faster. He’s already wrenched my orgasm from me, the wetness slick between us, and he’s close to his own. His breath hitches and tiny grunts escape him as he pounds against me and between my sobs, I tell him I love him. I tell him how good he feels. I tell him to let go with me—that I’m here—that I’ll always be here. When he releases, he groans loudly as if it feels so good it hurts as he throbs inside of me, then collapses. Through ragged hot breaths, he kisses my shoulder and cheek that is wet with tears.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, slipping to the side and pulling me against him, my back to his front. “I don’t think you’ll ever know how beautiful that was; how much that meant to me.”

I nod, weeping quietly as I gather his fist in my hand and kiss it softly. He’s not talking about the sex, all though it was amazing and beautiful. He means how I succumbed; how I let him take his place in my life as my man. “No one has ever given themselves to me like that, Demi,” he continues. “It’s going to be okay, baby. I promise.”

In his embrace, I continue to weep, and he holds me, his arms strong around me. When I calm down, my breathing normal, I ask him in a husky voice, “Tell me what happened to Blake? Tell me about killing the man that hurt him.”

Connor presses his mouth to my shoulder and stays there, and I can tell he’s trying to decide if he should share this secret or not. “Blake was eleven. I was fifteen,” he begins. “Grams was a good woman, but her love always has come with unlimited forgiveness and her daughters took full advantage of it. My mother came back more often than Blake’s. And every time she did she’d bring some fucking loser home with her.”

I squeeze his hand and kiss it, letting him know I’m here; that it’s okay to share this with me.

“Richard Malone,” Connor says the name, his voice stern. “He was a drug dealer that wore enough cologne to gag you. Fuck,” he groans. “Just the thought of it has me fighting a gag.” He pauses for a moment and clears his throat. “Taking care of a kid recovering from heart surgery was no easy job. Poor Gram’s did her best. One day, Blake was sleeping, and she needed milk and bread. She thought she could rush to the store and get back before Blake woke up. Richard came over looking for my mother, and when he knocked on the door, Blake woke up and let him in. He was too doped up to really sense danger at the time.” He stops and rolls to his back. I quickly turn and lay my head on his chest as he rubs his head with his free hand. “I skipped school that day. I was always doing something stupid, and I got caught by Grams, who happened to be on her way to the grocery store,” he chuckles for a brief second before letting the humor drop. “She sent me home.”

I look up and see Connor’s eyes are clenched closed as he replays what happened that day. “I walked in and heard Blake crying, but it was so soft. He was so tired and drugged he couldn’t even cry out or scream. He was too weak to fight . . .” Connor chokes out the last word, his voice thick with emotion. “I walked in,” his voice cracks again as he continues, “and that motherfucker was . . . goddamn,” he groans as he pulls his arm from under me and sits up resting his arms on his knees and hanging his head.

“It’s okay, baby,” I whisper. “I’m here.”

“I pulled him off Blake and got a few good punches in before he managed to grab Gram’s cast iron lamp and hit me over the head. He didn’t knock me out, but he did knock me on my ass and that gave him enough time to pull his fucking pants up and run.”

My chest feels hollow. My poor Blake. The horror he endured. My stomach knots at the thought he never confided this in me, as if he thought I would think less of him or something.

“By the time I was able to see again and move, Blake had slipped in his own vomit trying to get to me. I had to carry him in the shower and clean him off. He couldn’t get everything on his body wet at that time. He was sobbing so quietly, and I could tell crying hurt. I mean, what had just happened to him hurt, but the actual act of crying pained him, but he couldn’t stop. My head was bleeding, blood was running in my eyes, but I managed to get him clean and dressed and back in bed.” He holds a fist to his mouth as he stifles his sob.

“He grabbed my hand and begged me not to tell anyone, wouldn’t let me go until I promised not to tell. He said everyone would think he was a freak or look at him funny. I was a stupid fucking kid. I should’ve told. But I was a stupid kid, and I promised him I would never tell.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Connor,” I try to comfort him, but he pulls away and whips his head around.

“It was every bit my fault,” he argues.

“How so?” I ask as if it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.

“Because that piece of shit tried to do it to me two weeks before,” he admits, dropping his head again. My heart squeezes. “Came over offering to take me out for a burger. Halfway there, he grabbed my hand and put it on his crotch. I almost killed myself jumping out of the car. If I had told Grams, someone, anyone, it wouldn’t have happened to Blake. He couldn’t even cry for fucking help, Demi.” He lets out a laugh, but it’s humorless. He’s laughing in anger, how upset he is with himself, how he can’t believe he let it happen. “But I was so wigged out, fucking grossed out . . . I was too embarrassed to tell anyone.”

“I can’t talk about it anymore, Demi.”

“Okay,” I whisper as I kiss his back. “Can you tell me what happened when you saw him again?”

Connor raises his head and stares straight ahead. “I was passing through Arizona, heading to Cali. I stopped at a Walmart to buy some deodorant, of all things,” he snorts. “I was standing in line, checking out, when I saw him. I didn’t even think about what I was going to do, I just went after him. I caught up with him in the auto parts section, he was looking at floor mats.” He runs a hand down his face and continues.

I asked him if he remembered me and I could tell he did; he had fear in his eyes like I’ve never seen. I wasn’t some little punk-ass kid anymore, ya know. I was a man—big fucking man and it scared the shit out of him.”

I kiss his forehead, reminding him I’m here. That I’ll always be here.

“If he had just run, I think I wouldn’t have followed him. But he didn’t do that. He goaded me.”

“How so?” I whisper.

Connor lets his head drop again. “He asked me if Blake’s ticker was still ticking or if he’d finally kicked the bucket.” His hand finds my leg and squeezes, the memory causing a physical reaction in him. I hug him tighter, my heart shredded with how cruel the world can be.