Fear of Falling

I swallowed the swell of emotion building in my chest and changed gears. “Ok. I really want a shower, and I have no sleeping clothes. Unless you like the smell of beer and sweat in your sheets.”
    He flashed me a naughty smile, his eyes low and predatory. “I like your sweat.”
    Ok. That was it. Blaine had me—hook, line and sinker. All he had to do was tell me to get naked and assume the position.
    He laughed, shrugging off his comment. “You can use my bathroom. Clean towels are in there. I’ll get you something to wear.”
    When he turned to rummage through his drawers, I let out a sigh of relief. Then that relief quickly blossomed into anxiety. Was I really going to sleep with him? Were we actually going to cross that line? I mean, sure, I wanted to—more than anything—but could I see myself taking that step with Blaine? What would that mean for us? What would that mean for me?
    “You ok, Kam?” he asked, breaking me from my conflicted inner monologue.
    “Uh, yeah. Just tired.”
    I accepted the t-shirt and boxer shorts he offered me and scurried into the en suite bathroom, escaping his questioning eyes. It was immaculate, of course, much like everything else in his house. I felt like an ass for prejudging him, thinking I would be walking into the ultimate bachelor pad. It was quite the opposite, actually. Everything was neat and tidy, yet it felt homey and warm. There were no beer cans littering the countertops. No posters of nude models. Not even a crusty sock forgotten in a corner.
    Blaine Jacobs was a walking contradiction. On the outside, he looked dangerous. Exciting. Mysterious. But what I had learned about him told me a different story. He was kind, gentle, and protective. He was expressive to a fault. He smiled often, and he had the same corny sense of humor as me. Blaine may have looked scary-beautiful on the outside, but it didn’t compare to the beauty of his soul. It was a concept I had only seen personified in Dominic, and that drew me to Blaine even more.
    Not wanting to make him believe I was digging through his medicine cabinets—which I was actually tempted to do—I turned on the water. Then reality struck, crushing my chest and stealing my breath.
    The door. The door was closed.
    Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.
    Cold sweat broke out all over my face and neck, the surface of my skin growing prickly with goose bumps. I tried to center my breathing, and focused on inhaling through my nose and exhaling out of my mouth. On wobbly legs, I took a step towards the door. It appeared to be moving away from me, recoiling from my reach. I took another step, the edges of my consciousness becoming fuzzy and unfocused. I had to get to the door before I collapsed. Before my lungs felt the fear and restricted precious oxygen. I could feel it sweeping over me like deep, dark water. It was drowning me. I was suffocating in my own pathetic trepidation.
    I felt the coolness of the doorknob, my vision obscured with dark, fuzzy spots. I twisted until I heard a click, releasing it from the frame along with my ragged breath. I was ok. I would be ok.
    Relief washed over me, pushing away the panic, as I slid to the floor against the tub. Within seconds, my breathing became more productive. My heart rate had begun to slow, no longer thumping in my ears like a bongo drum. After a couple minutes, my vision had returned to 20/20, and the thick saliva in my mouth, preempting vomit, had dissipated.
    I took a deep breath before standing and peering out of the cracked bathroom door. Thank baby Jesus, Blaine was nowhere to be found. I peeled off my now sweat-drenched clothes and stepped into the hot water.
    Lathering up with shower gel that smelled masculine and fresh, I washed away the remains of my angst. It smelled like him. I squirted a generous dollop onto the shower puff and slid it along my body, letting his scent seep into my skin, as I rubbed the soap across my nipples, down my stomach and between my thighs. I took Blaine’s bath sponge, the sponge he used to clean his own wet, naked body, and raked it against my sex slowly. Then I did it again, biting my bottom lip, as I applied a bit more pressure and massaged his smell into me with closed eyes. I did it once more, letting my fingers create little circles with the mesh barrier.
    A half-whine, half-cry startled me suddenly, and I dropped the sponge. Shit. What was that? Ohmygod , no I was not… I couldn’t even think it. I was too mortified at my complete