First Choice ✓

Chapter 46. T

Antonio

🥃🥃🥃

A week into Sara taking time off from work—completely off and not working from home like she did the last month—it feels like we are on our honeymoon.

When we couldn't spend time together during the day because she had to work and not during the night because I was the one who had to work, now we spend the entire morning till a little after dinner together. It's been amazing.

I even check up on her multiple times during the night, and Izzy comes over more often. So Sara isn't staying alone for long periods. I'm afraid she'll start spiraling and overthink if she's left alone with her thoughts. But so far, she's been doing well.

Sara opens the passenger door and gets in, buckling her seatbelt.

"And?" I ask. "How did it go?"

She had her first session with her therapist. Together, we scoured the internet for the best therapist that had the best rating. I even accompanied her to a few intake meetings with different therapists until she found one who she felt comfortable with.

She eventually chose a woman in her forties who specializes in sexual assault. She has those maternal eyes that make you feel at ease instantly. She was the third therapist we 'interviewed'. They do say, 'third time's the charm'.

"Fine." She answers quitely, trying hard to maintain my gaze. I'm sure first time meetings with a therapist must be hard and maybe a bit awkward as well. So I don't take her one-word answer personally.

"When's your next appointment?" I ask.

"Next week, same time."

I rest my hand on top of hers on her thigh and give her a reassuring squeeze. "Let's go home, I'm cooking."

🥃

Our sex life after what had happened with Sara has changed a little. Not entirely on purpose.

These days I spend a lot of time making sure she feels loved and worshipped. I kiss every inch of her body. I take my time doing so. I also take my time bringing her multiple climaxes before I even enter her—even more so than before. And when I do, it's not as rough and fast. It's more subtle and unhurried. I don't suggest we use hand restraints, afraid it might trigger something. And I don't mind the lack of them, to be honest. As long as she feels good and comfortable.

But I'm really fucking glad she's okay. Her weekly sessions with her therapist seem to be really helpful to her. I understand she may not want me to know the tiniest details about the incident—the fact that she didn't immediately call me after her first day back to work is proof enough. Every time after she comes back from her hourly session, she seems lighter. Smiling more and more. I fucking love it. I eat it up.

"Honey, I'm home." Sara's voice booms from the entrance. I chuckle as I stand up from behind my office and go to her.

I wasn't able to drive her today, so she drove herself. I felt extremely bad. But I had an important phone call to make, and she told me that taking care of my business is also as important.

I don't agree, by the way.

She's the most important thing. Period.

"Hey, sweetheart." I give her a peck and ask my usual question. "How did it go?"

She puts her grocery bags on the kitchen island and starts to pull things out.

"Fine. This time, she didn't ask many 'invasive' questions. We just had a regular conversation, basically." She shrugs, putting different vegetables and greens on the island—thyme, onions, celery, carrots . . . And more.