Kathleen O'Brien: The Vineyard of Hopes and Dreams

She felt her cheeks start to burn, as her heart pumped oxygen faster than her veins could absorb it. Her throat tightened. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

For a split second, she was embarrassed, as if she were making too big a deal out of what was obviously a friendly touch. But then she caught it—the sudden tightening around his eyes, the momentary hardening in their green depths. It was the same look she’d seen that night two weeks ago, when she’d told him she didn’t feel like making love.

He was furious. Not just angry, not just upset. Furious.

That night, he’d been aroused, and he hadn’t been able to cover his frustration. He’d grabbed her irritably, and he’d kept kissing her, pressing her toward the bed as though she were a moody, difficult female who was just confused about her own needs.

He probably believed that, once coaxed into starting, she’d end up enjoying herself. He hadn’t realized that she was the last woman in the world he should handle in such a way. Since that night seventeen years ago, she hadn’t let anyone touch her in anger. No one. She had zero tolerance—no amnesty for “one drink too many,” or for “just joking around” or for abject apologies and roses.

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Hayley,” he said, shifting his shoulders wearily, as if he were a long-suffering martyr accepting an unjust verdict. “I thought you might have come to your senses. I hoped you would realize that any…extreme emotions I have are just because I love you.”

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