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“I am explicitly giving you my enthusiastic consent to do unspeakable things to me, provided they are sexual in nature, of course.”
I can’t help but laugh at that, and when she smiles, I feel myself relax. But only a little, because the thought that I might hurt her comes boomeranging back around again.
“You don’t think I’ll hurt you?” I say.
“I know you won’t.”
“Will you tell me if you don’t like something?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“You promise?”
“I promise. I also promise to tell you when Idolike something. Like what you were doing with my boobs. That was great,” she says, and leans into my touch. “Though I have to tell you, at a certain point I might not be able to communicate what I like in words. Shocking for someone who talks nonstop, I know.”
“Only you would be making jokes when I’m having intrusive thoughts while we’re making out on my fecking couch.”
She gives me a teasing smile. “What’s the joke? I’m not kidding.”
Something in her expression changes, and she leans away. My hand falls to her waist. For a moment, I worry that my OCD was right, and she’s realized she does feel pressured into this. But then she says, “Doyouwant to do this? I don’t mean to assume. We don’t have to. I won’t take it personally.”
My jumper is so big on her that it swallows up those little sleep shorts. “I really, really want to,” I say. “You look really fucking sexy in that jumper,” I say. “I’ve spent all day imagining you in nothing but that jumper.”
“You don’t have to imagine it,” she says.
“So, just to confirm—”
“Jack.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, and I’m sure I’ve done it now. I’ve annoyed her with the constant reassurance-seeking and have killed the mood and the moment is over and I’ll never get another one.
But then she surprises me by saying, “Youhaven’t givenmeyour enthusiastic consent to let me do unspeakable things to you yet.”
“Oh, you definitely have my enthusiastic consent to do unspeakable things to me.”
She squints at me. “I don’t know... that didn’t sound very enthusiastic.”
“You want enthusiasm?” I say. “I’ll show you enthusiasm, ciaróg.” She opens her mouth to respond, but before she can say anything, I change positions and pin her beneath me.
I’m done letting the thoughts ruin a moment I’ve been dreaming of for weeks. Done asking her to reassure me through every little fucking thing. I’m done feeling out of control, when all I want is to take it. I want to make her feel like she’s mine, even if I have to let her go sooner than I’d like. I want her to belong to me, at least right here and now. When she’s in Timbuktu or some other place I’ll never go, I want her to think of me, and when she does, I want this to be what she thinks of first. When she’s with someone else, I want her to be chasing the wayImade her feel.
I tug at the jumper. “Take this fecking thing off,” I say.
She arches a brow at me. “I thought you wanted me in nothing but your jumper?”
“I changed my mind.”
She laughs when we both struggle to get the jumper over her head.
“Fuck this thing,” I say, hurling it across the room once I’ve freed her of it.
“I approve of the enthusiasm,” Raine says.
When I look down at her again, whatever reply I had falls out of my head, because her nipples are visible beneath the thin white camisole she’s wearing. Anotherwhat iffloats through my head, but I tell it to fuck off. I pull off her camisole and throw that across the room too.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” For a moment I just look at her beneath me, her stomach, and breasts, and all that red hair splayed out on my yellow couch.
