I spent the next two support group meetings guiding my patients—more of them every week—through a series of assessments and activities relating to childhood trauma. The abuse victims and Ben found it helpful, and it effectively left Tyler Leeds on the sidelines, with very little to contribute. I had planned it that way. Now, obviously, I told the group that we were starting from the beginning, going chronologically as many trauma sufferers were dealing with Adverse Childhood Experiences. We started with abandonment and then moved on to food insecurity and substance abuse in the home. Apart from raising his hand when I asked who was raised by a single parent, Tyler didn’t really participate. I felt like I’d dodged a bullet.
Still, I found myself wanting him to speak, to open up more. But not then. To me. He still lingered after the sessions. I made myself scarce, barely greeted him. I didn’t stand around the coffee urn waiting for him to make me cream my panties. It was bad enough I was thinking about Friday’s coffee like it was an upcoming orgy or something. I kept having to plug my vibrator in to recharge it because I was running down the battery, using it before work and after. The days I had support group with Tyler, I had to use my suction vibe as soon as I got in the door. That way I could make it to the shower and a more leisurely session. If I hadn’t taken the edge off as soon as I dropped my keys in the dish, I would’ve called him. I would’ve said, come over here, let me give you my address.
My fantasies, the ones that used to star Chris Hemsworth, Jason Momoa, occasionally Ryan Reynolds—those were all about Tyler Leeds now. He’d taken over the starring role according to my libido. I couldn’t so much as relax and enjoy an old favorite about a hot celebrity taking me dancing and then groping me in the back of a limo without steamy Aquaman turning into Tyler at a crucial moment. Just as my fantasy man would be pushing up the hem of my dress to kiss my inner thigh, he’d look up with a naughty smile and, bam, it’s Tyler. Instead of irritating me and taking me out of the fantasy, it just cranked everything up hotter. It was Tyler’s stubble stinging the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh, Tyler’s long fingers petting my slit in long, teasing strokes. Tyler sucking and licking, holding me still while his tongue lashed at me and I writhed.
Even more disturbing than his guest appearances in my fantasies was the new one on rotation. The romantic fantasy. I didn’t do romance. I didn’t do relationships. So it was as jarring to me as anything could be. Finding myself turned on by a dream I had, a dream I kept thinking about, spinning into a fantasy.
Tyler and I having a picnic, sipping wine and watching a sunset while I rest my head on his shoulder. He sets down his wine glass and says he’s ready for dessert. Then he kisses me. Not a filthy, wanton, let’s do it now fast and hard kiss. A soft, gentle, slow kiss. A sweetheart’s kiss that would’ve melted my heart in high school but shouldn’t be able to even soften the permafrost on it now. His hand goes to my hair, stroking it, lifting it off my neck so he can kiss my nape. Then he pulls me into his lap and holds me, my back to his chest, completely cradled in his arms.
Tyler kisses the side of my throat while his hands find my breasts and massage them, fondle them, pluck at the nipples only after he has teased and stroked so long that they feel heavy and ache with need. Sweet pleasure spears through me at his longed for touch, the way his rough fingertips pluck at my nipples through what seems to be a silk dress I would never wear, light and feminine, tantalizing as it flows along my skin. When I squirm against him because it feels so good, I can feel him behind me. The broad, rock hard chest, and lower, the thick rod of his erection presses into me. His hands are too gentle, too loving. I want him urgently, chills skidding down my body as his touch makes me shiver with longing.
“Please,” I say to him, shameless about my begging. He chuckles, a knowing laugh that tells me he’s teasing me to the point of agony on purpose. His fingers make taunting circles around my tight nipple. I strain into his hand, wanting more. Leisurely, he trails his big hands down my belly until one big hand cups my sex, the heat of him through the silken fabric pressing into my most secret places. He rubs—exactly right, but not quite enough. I press hard against him, and he lets up, his touch grows infuriatingly lighter. I could beat my fists into his legs in frustration, but I don’t. I make an irritated mewing sound. His mouth fixes hot on my throat as he starts to suck. I rub up against him, grip his hair like silk in my fingers. The fact that he was behind me, stroking my body, setting me on fire, was erotic by itself. But then he whispered, “Let me make love to you.”