Текст книги "Asking for It"

Автор книги: Lilah Pace

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Five

I can’t sleep.

Carmen’s party wrapped up a couple of hours ago. I made up for my freakout by staying until the very end, until I was helping Carmen scoop up beer cans and toss empty Tostitos bags in the trash. If anyone made a joke about anything, I laughed, even if I didn’t think it was funny. More sangria? Sure. The life of the party: That’s me. I pretended Geordie hadn’t spilled my secret, and for the most part people either didn’t know or didn’t care. The only one who put me on edge was Mack, who kept staring at me. Then again, Mack always stares.

Jonah must have left right after he kissed me. I can imagine him walking back into the house, then out the front door, without even saying good-bye. Apparently no one saw our clinch in the backyard. That’s a relief. The last thing I need is Carmen asking me if I think he’s cute.

Cute. Jonah is—handsome. Attractive. Overpowering. Hot as hell.

Not “cute.”

I go onto the UT website to look him up. Earth sciences, Shay said. A professor. That’s virtually the last profession I would have guessed for him. Maybe—SWAT team member. Navy SEAL. Hit man. Not a teacher.

When I pull up his faculty page, the photo there isn’t reassuringly ordinary, with Jonah in glasses or a cardigan or whatever else the PhDs usually wear in their official pictures. Jonah is shown standing outside—someplace rocky, with a broad expanse of sky behind him. He wears khaki pants¸ a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a frown, like he wanted to punch the photographer. The frown doesn’t make him any less attractive. He doesn’t look like any professor I’ve ever seen, unless you count Indiana Jones.

Professor of Seismology and Volcanology, says the caption. That makes more sense. Now that I study his photo carefully, the rocks beneath his feet look like volcanic stone—that is, if I remember a damn thing from that geology class I took four years ago. I can picture him on the edge of danger, wearing gear that can only barely protect him from the forces nearby, walking straight toward lava flow or an eruption without hesitating.

With a shiver I realize—Jonah is a man who doesn’t give a damn about danger.

No more. If I want to get any sleep tonight, I need to stop this. I turn off my tablet and try to settle down. My skirt goes back in the closet; the camisole gets tossed in the hamper. A thin white sleeveless undershirt and panties are about all I can stand to sleep in during weather this hot. The cotton clings to me, so that I can pretend it’s a second skin. Sometimes I sleep naked, but tonight I feel like I want to be more covered up. Less vulnerable.

My neighborhood is safe, but tonight I double-check the deadbolt on the door. I go to every window to make sure each one is locked. Instead of turning off all my lamps, I leave one burning—the one by the window that looks out onto the street. If anyone drives by, maybe he’ll think I’m still awake.

By anyone, I mean Jonah.

He wouldn’t come after me, I think. Mostly I believe this. Jonah swore that he would never force a woman against her will. When he said it, there was something about his voice—something raw, something real. I trust my instincts enough to know Jonah was telling the truth.

But what if he thought he wasn’t forcing me? He knows I fantasize about rape. He said he wants to give me my fantasy. Would Jonah break in, thinking I was waiting for him? We talked about acting everything out. Breaking in could be part of that. I want to think he wouldn’t take it this far—but with something like this, the lines between fantasy and reality could get blurred much too easily. If I protested, even if I fought, Jonah might believe that was only part of the game.

He said the ball was in my court. Surely that means the next move is up to me.

Why am I thinking about the next move? I turn over in bed, restless beneath the thin sheet. This idea is insane. I told Jonah as much. When I said no, I meant it, and that’s the end.

What I don’t know is whether Jonah accepts that this isn’t going any further. Whether a guy who gets off fantasizing about rape can even understand No. Whether I can trust him. This man asked me to be completely vulnerable to him, to put myself completely in his power.

And he’s already proved he won’t misuse my powerlessness.

Jonah’s had me vulnerable and at his mercy before—last Sunday night, when he pulled over to help me with my flat tire. We were out in the middle of nowhere. When I told him that I had help coming, he had to know it was a lie. He’s a big man, obviously strong. If he’d wanted to take me against my will, he could have done it. I’m not sure even that lug wrench would have saved me.

Now I know his fantasies were just like mine. He saw me. He desired me. He envisioned pulling me into the back of his car, pinning me under his weight—

But he didn’t. Jonah had me exactly where he wanted me, and all he did was help me out and send me on my way.

Does that mean I could trust him after all?

I don’t know. I couldn’t know unless we actually tried this.

Which is crazy. Unhealthy. Possibly even dangerous. And it gets me hotter than anything else ever has.

I glance over at the window nearest my bed. That’s one I don’t have to worry about locking; over the past eighty years or so, the window’s been painted shut so many times that it’s practically part of the wall. Nobody’s coming through there, not without slicing himself to shreds on broken glass.

That’s what makes it safe to imagine Jonah just outside.

In my mind, the window slides open for him easily. I’m lying here in my skimpy tank top, breathing hard, paralyzed by fear. I imagine Jonah sliding through as easily as a cat burglar, his feet barely making a sound as he makes contact with the floor and stands up, looming over me. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. In this fantasy, I know that I have to do whatever he says. What he wants to do to me, I have to take.

Don’t, whispers the rational part of my brain, the part that knows I shouldn’t go here even in my own mind. My rape fantasies about faceless strangers—those are one thing. Thinking about Jonah, the man who wants to tie me up and take me down for real: That’s a whole new level of fucked-up.

But I seem to have reached that level at last.

I wriggle out of my underwear, and my hand steals between my legs. As my fingers start circling, I close my eyes, the better to dream of Jonah standing over me.

He has a belt, a rope, something, and he winds it around my wrists. He ties the other end to one of the bedposts, then tugs my body down so that my arms are stretched above my head. I whimper in fear. It just makes him smile. He pulls off my panties, pushes my legs open so wide it almost hurts. I hear the purr of his zipper. It’s too dark for me to see his cock, but I feel the rigid head pushing against me—into me—

In my mind I keep replaying that, the moment he plunges inside, the first shock of penetration, Jonah’s satisfied groan, my own desperate cry. Over and over again, the first time every time, as fast as he could actually thrust—and then I come so hard it makes me dizzy. Everything is blurred and humming, and I know nothing but the pulse of my cunt as it contracts, wanting the man who isn’t there.

As soon as I can breathe again, I say, “Oh, shit.”

If just imagining Jonah Marks playing this role for me gets me off that hard, what would the reality be like? I don’t want to find out.

Or maybe I do.

Either way, I’m not going to be able to stop thinking about Jonah anytime soon. So much for sleep.

•   •   •

My entire weekend goes something like this:

Get up, eat breakfast, exercise. Resolve not to think about Jonah so much today.

Get some work done in the studio.

Break for lunch; head home for sandwich. Start thinking about Jonah.

Masturbate to the thought of him, right in the middle of the day, groaning and panting on my bed.

Put my clothes back on. Run an errand, or see a friend. Pick out a funny card at the store to send to Libby, so she doesn’t completely forget her Aunt Vivi. Have trouble remembering what to buy at the store, or what to say next in a conversation, because my mind is still chained to the shadow of Jonah Marks.

Go home. Get myself off again. Toss my wet panties in the hamper and put on a fresh pair.

Try to think of something fun to do in the evening. Play video games with friends. Listen to music in a club. Spend the whole time imagining Jonah’s hands on my skin.

Get into bed. Tell myself there’s no way I can possibly need another orgasm.

Think about Jonah. Give myself another orgasm. Fall asleep.

At least I don’t remember any of my dreams over the weekend. Sleep is the only time I have away from Jonah. I go through six pairs of panties in two days.

On Monday morning, I’m awakened by my iPhone, which offers up the day’s appointments along with the song that rouses me. Squinting, I scroll through the appointments on autopilot, until I get to my usual therapy time. Today it says, Remember: Doreen in Florida.

My therapist told me a month ago that she would miss two weeks to visit her son in Tampa. I put it in my phone and otherwise forgot about her absence. It’s been a while since I was so fragile that even a two-week break from therapy seemed like a crisis. Now, though, I feel a small shiver of dismay. Doreen would have talked some sense into me. She would have reminded me that I’m trying to get further away from this fantasy, not to wrap myself up in it until it dominates my whole life. I would have walked out of her office refreshed, stable, and ready to get back to normal.

Instead, Doreen is half a country away, and Jonah is very, very close.

I throw on cropped pants and a simple white top, slide my feet into sandals, tug my hair into a ponytail, and drive to the university. As usual, merging into the thick campus traffic is a pain; we wind up with a Los Angeles–worthy traffic jam virtually every day. UT Austin is one of the biggest college campuses in the nation—more than fifty thousand students, nearly twenty-five thousand faculty and staff, with 150 buildings spread out across more than four hundred acres. All around me in traffic are undergrads driving to class. Even the lucky few who get to live on campus are sometimes so far from their classrooms that they take their cars instead of walking.

That said, every college is really a few hundred smaller colleges all wrapped into one. Each building, each department, has its own personality and its own cast of characters. I don’t venture far from the School of Fine Art, as a general rule.

No doubt this is why I walk up to the building to see Geordie sitting on the metal bench out front. He holds a piece of paper, which he’s crumpled slightly between tense fingers. When he sees me, his eyes widen. Even though he’s clearly been waiting for me, he dreads what I’m going to say.

He should.

As I walk up to him, Geordie gets to his feet. “Vivienne, I’m so, so bloody sorry about Friday night.”

“You ought to be.” I cross my arms. “Do you even remember what happened? Or did Carmen have to tell you later?”

He scratches his head with his free hand. “I’m not denying it’s a bit blurry. But I remember.”

“That was personal, Geordie. As personal as it gets. No matter how drunk you were, you should never, ever have let those words come out of your mouth.”

“I know that. I do.” He looks so earnest. Almost heartbroken, like what he said hurt him more than it did me. Geordie always wants to do the right thing; he just doesn’t always get there.

This time, though, I’m not letting him off the hook. “I don’t discuss what our sex life was like. Not even with my best friends, and definitely not with strangers at a party. If we’re going to stay friends, you have to do better than this. Do you understand?”

Slowly, Geordie nods. The two of us stand there in awkward silence for a few moments before he straightens out the piece of paper. “I felt so bad about this that I wrote you a poem.”

“. . . a poem?”

“Yes.” He stands almost at attention, like a politician about to give a speech. “The title is, ‘I Am a Complete and Total Shit.’”

I’m not going to laugh. I’m not.

Geordie reads: “I am a complete and total shit / sometimes I act like a stupid git / when I become a blabbermouth / all my relationships go south / forgive this lowly wretched wanker / or I’ll be sad, nothing rhymes with wanker.”

I can’t help it anymore. Giggles bubble up inside me, and Geordie’s worried face gentles into a smile of relief. I never could stay mad at him for long. “Please tell me there are no more verses,” I say.

“I felt I’d achieved poetic perfection in just six lines. Less is more, you know?”

“Yeah. For instance, less intimate details about our relationship, more enjoyable parties.”

He puts one hand on my arm—not a romantic move, just a reassuring one. “I swear to you, I’ll never reveal anything that personal about us again. Never. There’s not enough gin in the world to get me that drunk.”

I sigh. “Okay. But you’re on probation.”

“My sentence is just and fair, Your Honor.” Geordie squeezes my arm, then steps back. “So, I’ve got to get to class.”

The law school isn’t particularly close. “Will you have to run it?”

“Possibly. But we’re all right?”

“. . . sure.”

With a grin, Geordie turns away to lope across the green. He’s older than almost all the other students, but the way he moves—running, his longish brown hair flopping with every bound—he looks more like a kid than any of them. Shaking my head, I watch him go.

The teaching assistants all share a space on the fourth floor. The elevators only go to three. I take the steps the whole way—it’s less irritating. Our designated office is as grand as you’d expect: a long narrow room that was probably originally designed as a closet, outfitted with the oldest, most beat-up desks that haven’t already been thrown out as scrap. I don’t really mind. Most of my work is done at home or in the studio anyway. Besides, even as low as I am on the totem pole, I still get to rely on the department secretary.

“Well, hello there,” Kip says as I walk into the main office. “Not looking nearly as slinky as you did Friday night.”

“Oh, no! I meant to wear lingerie to impress my two P.M. class.” I smack my forehead with the heel of my hand. “Do you have any pasties lying around? Or a G-string?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Kip gives me a sidelong glance; his quick fingers never stop typing for a second. “I thought you might want to look nice for Geordie. Don’t think I didn’t see him out there, so spare me the sarcasm.”

“Geordie and I are just friends now, remember?”

“Mmmm-hmm,” Kip hums, making it clear he doesn’t believe me.

When Kip Rucker joined our department last year, I wasn’t sure what to think. Our previous secretary was a grandmotherly lady who wore appliquéd sweatshirts themed for every holiday, including Arbor Day. Kip, on the other hand, wears skinny jeans, oversized designer T-shirts, and nail polish. It takes courage to be as out as Kip is, here in Austin; we might be the bluest city in the great red state of Texas, but this is still Texas. So I admired his guts from the start, but couldn’t imagine him fitting in. He has a big mouth and a bigger attitude and doesn’t give a damn what anyone in the world thinks of him. Usually this is not great secretary material.

Within three weeks, Kip had restructured our entire office. Suddenly we’d become efficient. He turned around work faster and more effortlessly than any of us had dreamed possible. Even the old coffeemaker vanished, replaced by a newer model that produced actual coffee instead of blackish sludge.

When we asked him how he managed that, he said he knows people in food services. We soon learned that Kip knows people in every single department of the university. Somehow, all these people seem to owe him a favor. I think Kip could take over as dean if he set his mind to it. Possibly as dictator. I’m just glad he’s on our side.

This morning, Kip’s nails are cherry red. I take his hand for a second. “Nice shade.”

“Thanks. You can borrow the bottle if you want.”

“Not today. Maybe sometime.”

I go through the side door into my skinny little suboffice. Neither of the other TAs has come in yet; Marvin’s got class right now, and Keiko never puts in office time before noon. That means I have a little while to myself.

The computer chimes on. Our home page is the university’s site, so it only takes a couple of keystrokes to get into faculty—and to bring up the page for Jonah Marks.

Once again I look at his picture. I’ve spent all weekend imagining his face near mine—giving me orders, calling me names—but the sight of him hasn’t lost its power over me. If anything, he overwhelms me even more.

Maybe that’s because he’s closer than ever.

Before I can chicken out, I click the link for his university e-mail. A letter form pops out, Jonah’s address at the top, ready for me to type. I don’t bother putting anything in the body of the e-mail; everything I have to say to him fits in the subject line.

I type, Let’s talk.

And then I hit send.

Six

Here in Austin, most bars are raucous places meant to serve either the live-music scene, the crowds of college students with fake IDs, or both. This hotel bar, however, is more sophisticated, more low-key. Instead of the usual blaring alt-rock, R&B music plays softly from hidden speakers around the room. Pale leather couches and chairs cluster in various nooks to encourage conversation and create privacy. The other people here are mostly adults, and nearly as many people hold coffee cups as wineglasses.

I hesitate before I order my own drink. It feels important to keep my head—but I’m already nervous. Caffeine would tip me over the brink. Pinot noir it is.

The couch tucked in the farthest, most intimate area of the bar is available, so I claim it. I came here early on purpose, so I’d have a few moments to collect myself before Jonah arrives. Now I’m wishing I hadn’t. While I sit here, I have nothing to do but freak myself out.

It’s not too late to walk out of here. E-mail Jonah, tell him you can’t make it, go out to your car and drive the hell away while you still can.

I don’t move.

By now I’m used to the second-guessing. I’ve been doing that ever since I sent that e-mail to Jonah two days ago. His reply was simply this address, this day, this time—and the line, “Just to talk.” At first I found that maddening. He couldn’t express surprise, enthusiasm, doubt, anything? Not one question, not one detail, about what he’s thinking? Then I realized this conversation is one that has to happen in person. We have to be completely clear about this, in every detail. Otherwise everything could go terribly wrong.

Is it even possible for something this screwed up to go well? I doubt it. Maybe I’ll regret this. The dangers are very real, and I haven’t lost sight of any of them. This fantasy that dominates me—it’s sick, and it’s twisted, but it’s not going away. Fighting it hasn’t done any good. So I’m giving in. Surrendering.

I take a deep drink of my wine¸ close my eyes, and take a deep breath, willing myself to be calm. It works until I open my eyes again and see Jonah.

He walks straight toward me as if he’d known where I would be sitting before he even came through the door. Like me, Jonah dressed to fit in at this upscale place—charcoal gray slacks cut perfectly to accentuate the taper of his waist, and a black linen shirt that drapes across his powerful body. My hand goes to the neckline of my plum-colored wrap dress. It’s not that revealing, but I feel exposed before his knowing gaze.

“I wasn’t sure you’d show,” Jonah says.

Hello to you too. If he can cut to the chase, so can I. “Nearly bolted for the door a couple of times. But here I am.”

That wins me his fierce version of a smile.

Jonah sits down beside me—but a couple of feet away, as though I were a business colleague instead of the woman he wants to fuck. Then again, this isn’t foreplay. Nothing’s going to happen tonight. If we’re going to go ahead, we need boundaries. Definitions. I might be crazy enough to do this, but I’m not crazy enough to do it without any rules.

“How was your day?” I say.

He gives me a look. Like he said at Carmen’s, the less we know about each other’s lives, the better. This is not a first date.

“Sorry.” I take another sip of wine, then put down the glass. If I drink a little more every time I feel on edge tonight, I’ll get plastered. “No details. No chitchat. We shouldn’t go there.”

“It’s okay. This is difficult.” He pauses a moment before adding, “Are you scared?”

Deep breath. Honest answer. “Yes and no. I believe you aren’t going to do anything without my permission. But what we’re doing feels a little like jumping off a cliff. I’ve had this fantasy since—since always, but I never thought I’d act it out with a stranger—”

At that moment, a waiter appears by our sofa. Why do bar waiters only show up when you least want them around? Offhandedly Jonah says, “Bring me whatever she’s having.”

I don’t think he’s even looked at my glass. What if I had some ridiculous tropical drink, the kind of thing served in a pineapple with pink straws and paper umbrellas? The thought of someone as serious as Jonah sipping one of those makes me smile. Finally I’m able to relax a little—but not much.

As soon as the waiter hurries off, Jonah turns to me. “What would it take to make you feel safe?”

I like that he asked this. But how do I answer?

Cut to the chase, I remind myself. Jonah’s blunt honesty is the only way to go. “I’d need you to wear condoms. Unless you want to show me your medical records.”

Jonah nods. “I can get those for you. Can you show me test results too?”

It hadn’t even occurred to me that Jonah also might be concerned about that. “Um. Yeah, sure.”

“No rush,” he says. “I don’t mind wearing a condom at first. Makes it last longer.”

My cheeks flush as I envision Jonah inside me, pounding me, going on and on and on without mercy—

Jonah must know what I’m thinking, because he tilts his head as if he’s relishing the effect he has on me. He murmurs, “What else?”

Another sip of wine steadies me enough to answer. “I wouldn’t want you to tie me up. Not the first time, anyway.”

He smiles. “I like that you’re thinking about the future. I’ll have plenty of chances to give you what you want.”

It hadn’t even occurred to me before today that Jonah might have been considering a onetime fling. Now that I think about it, that makes more sense than assuming we’d keep playing out this scenario. But I’ve wanted this too long, too much, to assume one night will be enough to get it out of my system. If Jonah’s the right partner for this fantasy, then we have a chance I don’t intend to waste.

Already I sense that one taste of Jonah Marks won’t be enough.

“Yes.” I meet his eyes evenly. “Assuming we decide we like it.”

“I think we will.” My God, his smile right now—it’s hungry, and animal, and I know he’s imagining having me. This instant. The knowledge shakes me in the best possible way.

The waiter shows up with Jonah’s wine. We both fall silent just as long as it takes for Jonah to accept the glass and toss the waiter a twenty. “No change.”

This wine was only $10 a glass. The waiter brightens. Me, I’m glad I bought my own drink. I don’t want to owe anything to Jonah Marks. Yet.

As soon as we’re alone again, Jonah says, “We should talk about what you don’t want the first time versus what you don’t want, ever. If we set the ground rules up front, it’s going to be better for both of us.”

That makes sense. I’ve been thinking this through ever since he made his audacious offer, and by now I think I know what to say. That doesn’t make it easy to get the words out. “Well. Let’s see. I already said that I don’t want you to tie me up the first time, and I guess we worked out the safe-sex thing . . .”

Jonah nods, a touch impatient. Although I never noticed him moving, he seems to have edged closer to me on the sofa. Our knees are nearly touching, now, and his gaze is locked on mine. My uncertainty is a turn-on for him, I realize. How could it be any other way?

Knowing he feeds off my fear makes me even more nervous. It takes me a few seconds to continue. “Okay. Some things I don’t want you to do, ever—one, no weapons. If you have a knife or a gun or something, it’s not going to be hot for me. It’s going to scare me to death.”

Jonah looks startled. He must never have considered that. “No weapons. Absolutely.”

I count the next point off on my fingers. “Two, I realize I might get—banged around during all this, but please try not to actually injure me or cause me serious pain. I’m not a masochist; I don’t get off on that kind of thing.”

“I’m not a sadist, so that works.”

Maybe he’s not a sadist in the physical sense. Emotionally? He has to be. How can you dream about raping women and not enjoy hurting people, in soul if not in body? I guess if you don’t understand what that does to a woman—how badly rape screws with your head, the scars it leaves—you could imagine that your pleasure wouldn’t cause someone else lasting pain.

For a moment I’m angry. I want to tell Jonah everything he doesn’t understand. Make him know how terrible it is.

But I need him to be fucked up, don’t I? The only possible partner for these games is someone as bent as I am.

“All right,” I say. “Third, you don’t film this. You don’t make an audio recording, and you don’t take photographs.”

He looks disappointed. That’s something he wanted, then. “I’d never put anything like that online, or show it to anybody.”

“I believe you, but stuff like that can fall into the wrong hands. Remember the scandal with all those movie stars last year? Some ‘revenge porn’ sites actually hack people’s computers and cell phones. They steal the images if they can.”

This is when I learn what Jonah Marks looks like when he’s angry. His expression darkens, as do his gray eyes. His body tenses, like he wants to throw a punch but isn’t going to let the guy know when it’s coming. “Any man who would do that to a woman is scum.”

I nod. It’s so strange, the division within him—how he can simultaneously hate men who take advantage of women and yet fantasize about being one of them. “So no recordings, no pictures?”

He gives in gracefully. “None.”

“Okay. Finally—this is my last not-ever thing, I think—” I glance around the bar to be sure nobody has wandered closer while I was distracted. Nobody has, but I lower my voice anyway. “Please don’t come on me.”

Jonah blinks, as if he’s surprised. I guess he would be. We’re talking about getting as kinky as anyone can, yet I don’t want him to do something that ordinary.

I don’t. I really, really don’t.

At last he says, “Okay. I won’t.”

If he’s not coming on me, he’ll come in me. I imagine him in my mouth. Suddenly I want to taste him so badly I nearly moan.

I try to cover how flustered I am. “So. What about you? Do you have any limits I should know about?”

The answer I expect is No. He’s going to be the one in control; what limits could he possibly need? Instead Jonah answers me immediately. “The main thing is that if we’re ever discovered—if someone thinks what’s happening is real and steps in or calls the police—you have to set them straight. I don’t care if you’re ashamed of this fantasy. You tell them the truth, no matter what.”

“Of course. I would do that anyway.” I hadn’t even realized what a risk Jonah was taking. He studies my face carefully, and I know he’s trying to figure out whether I’m being honest about backing him up. More gently I add, “We have to trust each other or this doesn’t work.”

“Right.” Jonah goes back to his points like he hadn’t paused. “I told you I wasn’t a sadist. Well, I’m not a masochist either. Sometimes I realize you might want to fight back—and I might like that. If you struggled.” The way he smiles at me makes me go hot all over. I shift on the sofa, and I can feel how slick I am between my thighs. “A few scratches, a slap, that’s fine. A black eye or broken arm I have to explain to people, that’s not fine.”

“Got it.” Like I could take out Jonah Marks. If we ever fought for real, he’d have me down within seconds.

He takes a deep breath. “Last thing, never call me Daddy.”

I stare at him. It’s all I can do not to laugh.

Obviously he sees my amusement. His scowl deepens. “Some women say that, in bed.”

“I know.” I swallow the last of my smile.

“If I ask you to talk, I’ll tell you what to call me. And you’ll say it.”

The urge to laugh vanishes. In its place are other, more primal urges. I want this man to give me orders. I want him to tell me what to do.

If Jonah accepted my weird limit, I can accept his. “‘Daddy’—that’s not one of my things. So we’re good.”

“And for the first time only—” Jonah considers for a moment. “I want to tell you what to say.”

“Do you mean, like, a script?”

“No. I mean, I’ll tell you to shut up, and you’ll do it. You’ll only speak when I let you, and only say what I tell you to say. We can get more—improvisational, as we go on. But this time, I want that much control. Will you give it to me?”

Again I feel that quiver in my belly, fear and wanting intertwined. “Yes, I will.” I’ve given him so much power over me already. A few words won’t make any difference.

Jonah nods, satisfied. We have our ground rules.

The waiter circles by again hopefully, but our wineglasses are still half full. I’ve held true to my plan not to drink too much tonight. Not only will I be driving home, but I also think it’s important to keep my head.

Then again, I’m here making plans for a guy I hardly know to pretend to rape me. It could be argued I lost my head a while ago.

“We’ll want a safe word,” Jonah says.

I’ve heard of a safe word, of course, but I always thought it was strictly an S&M thing. It makes sense for us, though. We’re already talking about scenarios in which I might be physically fighting him off. Jonah needs to know what it would sound like if I said no for real. “Silver.”

“Silver?”

“That’s the safe word. Silver.” I chose it off the top of my head, but now I like it. “What do we do if I want you to stop, but I can’t talk?”