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“W-what?”
“The blue ones. And don’t even dare say these are real. Without the glasses, they look fake as fuck.”
“I…can’t.”
“Why not? I already know your real name and what you look like.”
“Just…no.”
“Why?”
“Because…I don’t like it. Just like you don’t like looking into my eyes during sex. Do you see me asking about that?”
“Who told you I don’t like looking at your eyes?”
“Well, you’ve always fucked me or touched me from behind. Isn’t that indication enough?”
“I prefer that position.”
“And I prefer having these eyes.”
A muscle tics in his jaw and I expect him to insist, but he does something entirely different.
His voice lowers when he speaks. “I don’t like fucking from the front. It makes me feel less in control and brings back dark shadows from a past I like to keep buried.”
I’m suddenly hyperaware of the tension floating between us, as if he summoned it and its sole purpose is to suffocate us both.
“What type of past?” I ask in a murmur.
He shakes his head slowly. “You don’t get to ask that when you’re hiding yours.”
“I told you about my mom.”
“She’s not what you’re hiding from, so that doesn’t count.”
I purse my lips and attack another slice of pizza.
He just leans back on his palms, watching me with a grin. The asshole. “That’s what I thought.”
“I want my butterfly back,” I blurt out of nowhere.
He’s still grinning and I’m considering the best way to wipe it off his face, aside from the obvious option—murder.
“What makes you think I have it?”
“You mentioned it the other day, so that means you do.”
“Maybe if you show me your real eyes.”
“I will not.”
“Then I don’t have it.”
“Knox! That butterfly is important to me.”
“Apparently not enough, because you refuse to compromise.”
But it’s not a compromise. He’s demanding to see a part of me that will make me vulnerable and I refuse to play that game. “Are you always an asshole or only with me?”
