He reared back with a curse and shifted, and I slammed my knee between his legs.
Doubled over, he fell away from me.
I rolled out of bed and hit the floor with a thud.
Scrambling to my feet, I threw myself toward the door to the hallway.
"Eva!" he gasped, awake and aware of what he'd almost done to me in his sleep.
"God.
Eva.
Wait!" I bolted out the door and ran into the living room.
Finding a darkened corner, I curled into a ball and struggled to breathe, my sobs echoing through the apartment.
I pressed my lips to my knee when the light came on in my bedroom and didn't move or make a sound when Gideon stepped into the living room an eternity later.
"Eva? Jesus.
Are you okay? Did I .
hurt you?" Atypical sexual parasomnia was what Dr.
Petersen called it, a manifestation of Gideon's deep psychological trauma.
I called it hell.
And we were both trapped in it.
His body language broke my heart.
His normally proud bearing was weighted with defeat, his shoulders slumped and his head bowed.
He was dressed and carrying his overnight bag.
He stopped by the breakfast bar.
I opened my mouth to speak; then I heard a metallic clink against the stone countertop.
I'd stopped him the last time; I'd made him stay.
This time, I didn't have it in me.
This time, I wanted him to go.
The barely audible latching of the front door lock reverberated through me.
Something inside me died.
Panic welled.
I missed him the moment he was gone.
I didn't want him to stay.
I didn't want him to go.