He Loved Me, But He Was Afraid to Touch Me
Hachimitsu · Ongoing · 6.6k Words
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Introduction
Six months into our marriage, Adrian still wouldn’t touch me.
Every time I reached for him, he pulled away at the last moment. I thought he didn’t love me. I thought he’d only married me because my sister had run away to Paris.
So I drafted our divorce papers.
But just as I was preparing to leave, I discovered his secret. He had stolen my lingerie, tattooed my name on his body, and turned to the internet for advice under an anonymous account:
“I’ve loved her for years. How do I make her see it?”
Every time I reached for him, he pulled away at the last moment. I thought he didn’t love me. I thought he’d only married me because my sister had run away to Paris.
So I drafted our divorce papers.
But just as I was preparing to leave, I discovered his secret. He had stolen my lingerie, tattooed my name on his body, and turned to the internet for advice under an anonymous account:
“I’ve loved her for years. How do I make her see it?”
Chapter 1
Six months into our marriage, Adrian still wouldn’t touch me.
Every time I reached for him, he pulled away at the last moment. I thought he didn’t love me. I thought he’d only married me because my sister had run away to Paris.
So I drafted our divorce papers.
But just as I was preparing to leave, I discovered his secret. He had stolen my lingerie, tattooed my name on his body, and turned to the internet for advice under an anonymous account:
“I’ve loved her for years. How do I make her see it?”
————————————————————————
My husband came home from his business trip, found me waiting in his bed, and stopped in the doorway.
"Why are you here?"
I had showered, done my makeup, and put on expensive lace for this. Apparently, I should have made an appointment.
Adrian stood there in a loosely tied robe, his hair still damp. Six months of marriage, and I still found him unfairly attractive. Six months of marriage, and we had never had sex.
He would touch me. He was careful, attentive, even generous about it. But whenever I tried to take things further, he stopped. I was tired of being left to wonder what was wrong with me.
"I'm sleeping here tonight," I said.
His gaze moved over me, then away. "Fine."
That was easier than I'd expected.
By the time he lay down beside me, my rehearsed confidence had deserted me. I slipped an arm around his waist. He went still, and for a moment neither of us moved.
Then I leaned up to kiss him.
"Do you want me to help?" he asked.
He turned toward the nightstand drawer.
I let my arm fall. I knew that routine. The same careful compromise, followed by him putting distance between us as soon as I reached for him.
"I don't want your help. I want you."
He looked back at me but said nothing.
My face burned. "If you don't want me, just say it. Stop making me do this every time."
"Claire—"
"There are plenty of men in Los Angeles. I could find someone who actually wants to be with me."
His hand closed around the edge of the drawer.
"That's not what this is," he said.
I waited for him to tell me what it was.
He didn't.
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