Page 136 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

“I can walk, you know,” I say.

“Fuck no. Are you insane? On bare feet?”

“I’ve had basically bare feet since you told me to get my head start,” I point out.

“What you did with your ten minutes is none of my business,” he says. “This isn’t hard for me. I love carrying you. And I love taking care of you after you let me do dirty, nasty stuff to you.”

I smile and reach up to my hair, feeling the need to fix it.

“Lillith, sweetheart. You’re beautiful. Always. You don’t need to worry about your hair, or your feet, or anything else, alright?”

“Sorry,” I say, a little embarrassed. “I’m not trying to be vain.”

“It’s normal to feel a little vulnerable after an intense scene,” he says. “How are you feeling about it? Did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah,” I admit, fiddling with the tip of my left ring finger. “You get pretty scary when you’re in that mode.”

“Too scary?” he asks.

“No,” I hedge. “No, it’s kind of thrilling. And when you turn that side of you off, when this version comes back out after, it’s sort of like a breath of fresh air. It’s like... you’re such a golden retriever all the time. So excited and sweet and eager. And when you slip into that dominant frame of mind, it’s like I get to see something that’s just for me. Even if I’m scared, even if it makes me cry sometimes, it’s like I know that deep in here—” I place my hand on his chest, over his heart. “I know you have my best interests in mind. That I’m giving you temporary control with the full knowledge that you’ll hand it back over as soon as I demand it.”

He nods and smiles, his pointed teeth lovely in the moonlight.

“You are so beautiful when you let me take control. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s because I spent so much of my life feeling like I was unwanted or auxiliary—you know. Being a foster kid is complex, or at least it was to me. I don’t fault my foster mom for not adopting me, but there was always this knowledge hanging in the back of my mind—that things weren’t permanent. That I could be tossed away at any time. All it would take was a phone call to my social worker and I could have everything ripped away from me. My environment, my friends, my girlfriends, my school. It could all go away, just like that.”

“Did you think that would happen?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Not really. But maturing and knowing full well that she could get rid of me... I mean, it just took away a fundamental piece of stability that I think most other kids had. I think that’s why drumming became an outlet for me. It was another thing that couldn’t be taken away from me.”

His expression goes far away for a moment and a question comes to mind.

“When was the first time you ever dominated someone? What was it like?”

His eyes flicker back to mine before he purses his lips in thought. “Mmn—I guess the first real time I experienced kink in the way you’re talking about was when Oren took me to a rope social up in Seattle a bit after I turned eighteen. I’d been intrigued by BDSM for a while—I mean, I was a teenager with a computer. I watched porn, you know? And then Oren was absolutely the kind of friend who sent his favorites for me to watch.”

I laugh. “Of course.”

“Maybe it’s weird, but we kind of bonded over that stuff. He’s always been hypersexual, even though he’s pretty aromantic. As soon as that fucker turned eighteen he went to a dungeon. And going to that rope social, I think it healed something in me a little bit. I—what’s that face for?”

“What face?” I ask. “I don’t have a face.”

Bluffing. Definitely bluffing. But I’m not going to admit the truth to him. That I feel a little twist in my stomach over the fact that he had those experiences with someone else. And not me. And that he likely had spent a good deal of time with other partners. And how they were probably better at all of it than I was.

“Lil-lith,” he teases in a sing song tone. “You look like you’re about to hurl.”

Damn my stupid transparent face. “I’m sorry,” I say, not able to meet his eyes.

“Don’t be. Just tell me what that face is about,” he says.

“I don’t want to. I like hearing this story, and if I tell you what I’m feeling, you’ll stop telling it.”

“I promise I won’t,” he says. “Is it jealousy? Is that what it is?”

I feel heat flare in my cheeks and, humiliatingly, tears burn my eyes. “Damien, you’ve been with so many people,” I mumble. “I’ve been with two. And I just… What if you get bored of me?”

“Hey,” he says. “Look at me.”

I cover my face with my hands.