Page 86 of Letters From A Stalker

I groan. “I would rather be celibate.”

“Noted.”

“The gentle stuff has always been harder for me sometimes, which sounds completely backward when I say it aloud.”

“It doesn’t sound backward to me.”

I glance at her.

Tessa lifts one shoulder. “I know you.”

Simple as that.

I look toward the television, although I’m no longer following whatever is happening on it. “I’ve cried during gentle sex before.”

“I know.”

“Not because the guy did anything wrong.”

“I know that too.”

“It just...” I search for the feeling because explaining this has always been harder than understanding it inside my own body. “Sometimes when somebody gets very soft with me, really careful and quiet, it reminds me too much of being still. That night wasn’t violent in the way people imagine rape. There wasn’t a fight. He didn’t need one because I couldn’t fucking move properly.”

Tessa remains silent.

“The rougher stuff feels completely different because I’m choosing it. I’m there for it. If I want somebody to hold me down, I asked for that. If I want restraints or a hand around my throat, that’s something we’ve agreed on. There’s nothing passive about it just because somebody else technically has control.” The thought settles more fully as I say it. “In some ways, I think rough sex requires somebody to listen harder.”

Tessa’s brows lift slightly.

I turn toward her. “That sounded like something Kai would say, didn’t it?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

I groan and reach for my wine.

“But you’re right,” she adds. “There’s a huge fucking difference between somebody taking control because you gave it to them and somebody deciding your wishes don’t matter.”

“Exactly.”

That is the difference. Maybe the most important one. I have never wanted a man who merely takes. What I like is giving control to someone who understands exactly what a responsibility that is. Someone who can hold it without confusing permission with ownership. The thought sends a strange ripple through me because another sentence surfaces immediately.

You are mine, Little Ember.

My hand stills around the stem of my wineglass. The black envelope is twenty feet away. For one second, I consider telling her. I could get up, cross the room, open the drawer and place it in her hands. Tessa would believe me immediately. She would also lose her fucking mind. There would be no casual discussion. She would ask when it arrived, why I didn’t tell her, whether I called the police, whether I have cameras and why in the name of every patron saint of bad decisions I have spent five days sitting on evidence that someone has been watching my house. She would probably insist on staying for the next week. Maybe she should. The thought almost gets me off the sofa. Then I remember there hasn’t been another letter. Nothing else has happened. I haven’t felt watched since that night before the envelope appeared. Maybe whoever it was really did stop. The relief returns first. Then, humiliatingly, that tiny thread of disappointment right behind it. I hate both of them.

“Jules?” I look back at Tessa.

She is watching me. “What?”

“You went somewhere.”

“Oh.” I force my attention back into the room. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“About kinky sex?”

The opportunity to tell her remains open for another second. I let that opportunity fade into the background.

“Obviously. I’m very deep.” Tessa accepts the answer because why wouldn’t she?