When I take my seat on the couch, I bring my legs up, hugging my knees to my chest. The candlelight casts shadows up the unpainted walls, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. I’d love for this room to be finished after the kitchen. The kitchen first for practical reasons, but then I’d love to have a relaxing space again. A cozy fireplace in winter, throw pillows, and fluffy blankets covering the couch. I’d put up the artwork I’ve collected over the years.
Jonesy takes a seat next to me, his arm resting on the back of the couch, his knee bent against the cushion, as his hand reaches out to rest on top of my knee. It’s like he’s grounding me here with him, or giving himself a chance to grab me if I try to escape and avoid this conversation. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for abject embarrassment or pity. I’m going to admit to him, and to myself, what I’ve been feeling for the lastyear.
“Working on the Thomas Vale case unlocked something in me that hadn’t presented itself before.” I swallow hard, watching for judgment in his eyes, but find none. “I believe after spending so long assessing him, I developed a fantasy whereby I willingly become the victim or prey.”
“Okay...you had a curiosity about him. You wanted to change him? Or did you want to trust him?”
“It’s hard to explain. I wanted to change the narrative. Twenty-three women were murdered, and it took me a long time to figure it out because I felt so disgusted with myself for having these thoughts. But I wanted to be hunted down, chased, dominated. I wanted to feel threatened because I liked that feeling. I liked the rush of adrenaline it gave me.”
He nods slowly, small hints of confusion creasing into his frown lines.
“You wanted Thomas Vale to desire you enough to become one of his victims?”
I shake my head, huffing out a small breath of annoyance. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Thomas Vale. He’s disgusting, repulsive. I hope he rots in prison for what he’s done. And I don’t want to be a victim. I want to be...” I pause, trying to find the right word. “A participant. Agree that we’ll try certain things with a heavy emphasis on domination and subjugation.”
His eyes widen, and his thumb kneads intomy calf. “You said you want to change the narrative, but that’s not right. You want to change the ending,” he whispers. “You want to create a new reality, one where the woman doesn’t die a terrible and traumatic death. You want the game to end in pleasure, where you’re both consenting. It’s fear play, and a common kink. It’s nothing, and I meannothingto be ashamed of.” His hand grips my calf now, anchoring me to him.
I take a sip of beer to give myself a moment to take in his words. Jonesy, the person who could have judged me the most for this, is telling me it's normal; it’s okay. It might be a trauma response, but itmakes sense.
Despite my best efforts, my eyes prick, tears flooding my vision as I try to hide from him.
“Come here, princess.”
I shake my head, refusing, but he takes the beer bottle from my hand, places it on the floor, and pulls me over to him. I stiffen against his chest, but his hands rub up and down my back, soothing me, and I feel my knotted muscles loosen. The steady rise and fall of his chest syncs with mine, and for a while, we lie there awkwardly.
I’m lying on top of Jacob Jones.
Jonesy.
Mortal enemy.
Pain in the ass.
Annoyingly comfortable chest.
He has that body type that has stackedmuscles built from years of taking care of his body, with a layer of protective cushioning on top that screams that he knows how to relax and not take himself too seriously. Despite our tempered past, it defines him to a tee.
His arms cage me protectively, keeping out the world, my fears, and the anxiety that has plagued me for the last year. Here, right now, I’m safe from it all. I’m cradled from the judgment that others would no doubt spew. I should have known that for something serious, he never would have mocked me. The ghost of Jonesy from college appears before me in a collage of flashbacks, his sly grin, competitive edge, never scared to take me head-on.
“Is this what’s bothered you for the past year?” he murmurs, his lips brushing my hairline.
I nod against his chest, and he squeezes me.
“And the nightmares . . . they’re not nightmares, are they?”
“No...I mean, I get scared, but it’s more of a fantasy rather than a nightmare,” I admit.
“Can you tell me about it?”
Oh, you know, I’m chased down the street and into my house by a masked man who holds me down and forces himself on me until I’m so wet, so desperate that I stop pushing him away. He calls me a good girl, or a fantasy, or something along those lines, and I come harder than I ever have with anyone else. And that’s a made-up man my brain created.
I stiffen slightly at my own thoughts; the ugly truth of working with a serial killer unleashing these desires makes me feel dirty. It’s why I’ve felt so conflicted this past year. How could I, in good conscience, do my job to the best of my ability, knowing what I fantasized about at home?
“What if I promise to do everything you’re willing to tell me?” he whispers, his voice low and strained.
My face flushes as quickly as the ache builds between my legs.
“You can’t promise something when you don’t know what I’m asking for.”
