Read By My Choice...: A Valentine's Day Story (Valentine's Day Stories) for Free Online Page B

more. Every sound, every taste, every touch overwhelmed her, juggled for predominance with a violence she could not control. Tears rose, the first sob choked her, hurt in her throat. He reached for her, his right hand fitting to her cheek, the other circling her neck, pulling her in with gentle pressure.  
    “No, Jennifer, … Jen! … everything will be all right. I promise you that. Shh, just let it take you.”  
    She wanted to lean into that voice, wanted to take the solace it offered and allow it to take over, to be the one to make the decisions she was too lost to make. Temptation had always frightened her, more so than doctors, more than even spiders. Temptation was in every scent, every taste, every sight, and every day she ran from it.
    Jen had always wondered if others felt the world as deeply, as acutely, as she did and if so, how they managed not to lose themselves in it. How did you stop dancing in the rain when the caress of the drops teased your every ounce of existence, the scent of renewal and life washed away all debris, when the water painted interesting shapes on every surface? How did you stop tasting the sweet bitterness of chocolate when it suffused your very being with dreams of exotic jungles and burning suns? How did you stop to touch, to love, when every human was so full of fascination and beauty, no matter how often they hurt you?  
    And because she had always been frightened there would be a moment she would not be able to stop to touch, to smell, to taste — she had stopped herself from ever being tempted, from starting whatever tempted her in the first place. She was frightened of herself. How did you find yourself again after having lost what you are?  
    But nothing had ever been as tempting as the warm strength of the man before her so, naturally, she threw herself away from him, tried to break the contact, the lure of the sensation. Her hands found his chest, pushed against him, against his warm strength, the safety she instinctively felt he offered her. He did not let her go. Instead, he brought her body against his, held her close, an arm circling her waist with a band of steel. She pulled away, only to be brought back to him again. In absolute silence he held her, his eyes calm and ever observant, waiting her struggles out with quiet confidence.  
    She did not understand him. He had the power to stop her, to restrain her, even hurt her. Instead he held her close enough she could not get away but with enough leeway he did not have to hurt her. He let her fight him, let her tire herself against him, only controlling the framework in which she moved. It felt good, freed something in her she had not realised needed an outlet. All those chains of civilisation, of normalcy and acceptability fell away and she was able to allow her fear and pain space to breathe, to exist and be faced down.  
    And just as quickly as she had let herself feel, the little voice of social correctness screamed at her, reigned her in, telling her how utterly messed up she was. She was acting crazy, like a mad woman. Not only was she attacking a being who could squash her like a bug without even breaking a sweat, she did not really want him to let go. She was revelling in his hold, in the restraint he put on her in part because it allowed her to let her own go, to relax her own constant control of her emotions, knowing he would be the one to make sure she did not get hurt. She trusted in him, even if she did not trust him entirely.  
    It was that realisation which pushed her into panic. She did not want his control to feel good, no, more than that, knew it was wrong to feel this way. She was an independent woman and he was not a man who would ever let go again after she had given him this much. Only now, as she tipped into mindless panic, did he tighten his grip until she could not breathe anymore, had to gasp for air subsiding under her body’s need for oxygen. Where he touched her she did not hurt