Regan

IT ISN’T FAIR.

I don’t mind that Daniel shoved me out of the bathroom. I kind of expected it, actually. I was selfish enough to ask him to help me shower, knowing it’d drive him crazy and not caring that it did. Maybe in the back of my mind, it was a test to see how far I could push him. How insane with lust I could make him before he broke his word and started grabbing me. Then, maybe, I’d understand him. My brain would go Yep, he’s like every other man, and I could tuck him away into the same mental category that all men fell into now: users.

But Daniel never breaks his word. He never touches me sexually, and by the time he boots me out of the shower, I’m confused and a little sad to leave him behind in there.

I liked being touched by him. I liked that he touched me and I didn’t have to worry. That no one was going to be forcing me to do anything, and that there was only caressing and tenderness. And god, I’ve missed tenderness so much.

I peel the towels off of my body, give my hair a quick rub to soak some of the water off, and then crawl back into bed and pull the sheets tight around my body. I should put clothes on, but I’m feeling weirdly vulnerable.

It’s like I don’t want to get dressed because part of me wants Daniel to come out of that shower and touch me. Show me what it’s like to actually have great sex. Show me everything he can do. Hell, touch me a bit more without strings attached. I’d like all of that. But I can’t ask. I’m the poster child for Stockholm syndrome, right? I should be loathing every man’s touch at the moment, instead of lusting after a man that treats me with tenderness.

I should be thinking of my boyfriend.

The thought occurs to me, and I flush with guilt, huddling a little lower under the sheets. I haven’t thought of Mike much at all, lately. Does he miss me? Mourn me like I’m dead? Shouldn’t I be dying to get back to him instead of having all these mixed-up feelings about Daniel? Mike’s a good-looking guy. We’ve been together since high school. Hell, I picked the college I went to because Mike wanted to go there.

But Mike never gives you orgasms, my traitorous brain whispers. He never kisses you like Daniel did.

Has to be Stockholm, I tell myself. I hear the water going in the other room and figure Daniel must be showering himself at this point. He won’t be out for a few minutes. I can call Mike and . . . let him know I’m alive. That’s what a good girlfriend would do.

I pick up Daniel’s phone and dial the number to Mike’s apartment. He won’t answer his cell unless he knows who the caller is, so I’ll try there first. After four rings, it goes to voicemail.

“Hi! You’ve reached Mike and Becca. Leave a message after the beep!”

I hang up, horrified but not entirely surprised. Mike and my best friend Becca? Mike and my oldest girlfriend? The one that was always telling me how lucky I am to have a guy as great as Mike?

How easy must it have been for them to get together if they’re both mourning me? All it’d take would be a bottle of wine, some mutual sad commiseration, and then naturally, of course, they fucking move in together.

I shouldn’t be hurt, but I am. Mike might have assumed I was dead . . . but it hasn’t even been two months. And he never let me move in with him, even though we’d been dating for years. I need space, babe, he’d tell me. And I went along with it because that’s what Regan Porter did. She was a nice girl that went along with things.

But Becca’s moved in with my commitment-phobe boyfriend after less than two months.

I toss the phone aside. Then I lay down, my head on the pillow, staring at the wall. I don’t know what I’m feeling right now. Can I feel betrayed by people who think I’m dead? Did they even look for me?

A low groan touches my ears, and I sit up. That was Daniel. I get up from the bed, sheets wrapped around my body, and tiptoe to the door of the bathroom. The water’s still going, but I hear that low groan again.

He’s jerking off in the shower.

I’m fascinated by that, and a little jealous. Sex hasn’t been ruined for Daniel. He can still enjoy touching himself, I think enviously. I haven’t wanted to masturbate since I was taken. I used to be a champion masturbator, since sex was never really that great. I didn’t blame Mike for that, though. I sort of . . . went along with it. No orgasm? That’s okay, really. Regan Porter doesn’t mind. Regan doesn’t mind anything. She’ll finish herself off real quick while you take a nap.

Stupid Regan, I think to myself. Now it’s too late and you’re scared of everything. Scared of spiders, scared of men, scared of what happens if you let Daniel out of your sight.

I’m so tired of being scared. Of being unloved.

I suddenly feel heavy with unhappiness and return to the bed. I tuck a pillow under my head and lay down and close my eyes, curling up in the sheets. I wish the world would go away for a few days. I wish I didn’t care that Mike and Becca had paired up. I wish . . .

I wish I was back in that shower with Daniel.

I picture him behind my eyelids, his strong arms flexing as he lathers up his cock and jerks himself to fulfillment. I wish I could see it. I’m not sure if I should want that, but I’m tired of being the nice girl that does what she’s supposed to. It’s gotten me fuck all in life so far.

The water stops, and two minutes later, the door to the bathroom opens. “Regan?” Daniel asks, clearly surprised to see me tucked into bed. “Didn’t you want to go get breakfast?”

I shrug, wallowing in self-pity. I don’t open my eyes.

“You okay, baby doll?” He comes to the side of the bed, a towel wrapped at his waist. A washcloth is pressed to the wound at his side that he assures me isn’t bad. You wouldn’t even know it was there from the way he acts, except there’s pink seeping through the white of the towel.

I know he’s calling me that nickname I hate to rile me up, but I don’t have the energy to bite back at him at the moment. I’m a tangled knot of emotions, and right now the only one that seems to rise to the surface is sadness. Regan Porter, the get-along girl, is totally broken. I hate that.

“What’s bothering you?” he asks, and there’s a hard edge of concern in his voice. I squeeze an eye open and see his eyes scanning the room, no doubt assessing a threat.

I feel guilty for making Daniel panic, so I sigh. “Is it weird if I say I think I need a hug?”

He looks down at me in surprise and then chuckles, that roguish grin stealing across his handsome face again. “You want me to slide into bed with you and cuddle?”

“Actually, that sounds amazing,” I tell him and sit up, hugging the sheet to my breasts. “Is it weird if I want to cuddle?”

“Does it matter? Nobody’s here to judge,” he says, sliding a leg into bed and then pulling his big body down on the left side of the bed. He keeps a hand at the towel at his waist, and then he’s lying in bed next to me and lifts an arm, gesturing that I should come tuck my body against his.

And I can’t resist. It’s been so long since someone’s touched me with kindness and affection—not sleazy motives—that I move right over to him, tucking my face into the crook of his neck and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, even as he settles his arm against my back. He’s warm and damp and he smells like fresh soap. So good. I love the feel of his skin pressing against mine, and the hand that tenderly strokes my shoulder. Not in a sexual way but to comfort.

I burrow against him. “Thank you.”

“Anything you want,” he says in a low voice.

I’m not freaked out by the touch of Daniel’s skin against mine anymore. It doesn’t make me want to puke. Instead, I relax and sigh as he continues to idly stroke my skin with one hand, my body pressed against his. We’re both more or less naked underneath the sheets and towels, but it doesn’t feel sexual. At least, not yet.