A thousand years

Yes

I was curled up on the couch, my body nestled into the crook of Oliver's arm, his strong hand resting on my hip. He smelled like sweat and soap, and I breathed in deeply, feeling a shiver run down my spine. The TV flickered in the background, but neither of us were really paying attention. It had been almost a month since Jake had raped me, and Oliver and I had been trying to move on. He was my boyfriend, after all. He'd been there for me, even when I couldn't bring myself to talk about what happened. He'd held me close, kissed my forehead, and told me that everything would be alright.

But as I lay there, feeling the warmth of his body against mine, something started to stir between his legs. I felt it pressing against my hip, and I couldn't help but wonder what it was doing there. I was still trying to process what Jake had done to me, and the thought of having sex with Oliver was almost too much to bear. I wanted to tell him how I felt, but the words caught in my throat.

Instead, I shifted uncomfortably, trying to move away from the growing bulge in his pajama pants. But he misunderstood my movement, mistaking it for something else entirely. He pulled me closer, his hand trailing up my thigh, and whispered into my ear, "Baby, I know you're not ready yet, but I need this." His touch was gentle, almost reverent, and it was then that I realized he had no idea what I was really feeling. He thought I wanted this too.

I couldn't bring myself to say anything, to tell him that the very thought of being touched like that made me want to curl up into a ball and disappear. So I just lay there, my heart racing, as he undid my pajama top and slipped it off my shoulders. His lips found my neck, and I could feel his erection pressing harder against my hip, demanding attention.

It was then that I realized I had a choice. I could let Oliver take what he wanted, even though it went against everything inside of me, or I could tell him how I felt. But the thought of losing him, of him leaving me because I couldn't be what he needed, was almost too much to bear. So, with a shaky breath, I nodded, giving him the permission he sought.

Oliver's lips found mine, and his tongue danced against mine, urging me to open up. His touch was so gentle, so careful, that it was almost like he was afraid of hurting me. As he entered me, I bit down on my lip, trying to stifle the sharp pain that shot through my body. But he didn't rush, didn't push, instead he moved slowly, deliberately, his rhythm matching the rise and fall of my chest.

His hands cupped my breasts, his thumbs tracing circles around my nipples, and I felt a strange, foreign sensation begin to stir within me. It wasn't desire, not exactly, but it was something close. Something that felt like trust, or maybe even the beginnings of healing. As he continued to move inside of me, his lips trailing along my jaw and neck, I closed my eyes and let myself get lost in the feeling of his skin against mine.

And then, with a sudden surge, it hit me. Not the pleasure, not yet, but something else. Something warm and tender and real. It was the knowledge that Oliver was here with me, that he wasn't going anywhere, and that he was going to take care of me, even when it wasn't easy. As he reached his climax, his body tensing above mine, I felt a tear slide down my cheek, but it was a tear of relief, of gratitude, and maybe even of hope.

Afterwards, he held me close, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with my own labored breaths. I could feel the wetness between my legs where he had been, and it was a strange sort of reminder that even though I was still broken, I was still alive. And maybe, just maybe, with Oliver by my side, I could start to piece myself back together.

He kissed my forehead, my eyelids, my nose, as if he were trying to memorize the contours of my face. "I'm so sorry, Emmy," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I never meant to hurt you."