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“That’s what kind of man your grandfather is. Do you understand now? Is it clear to you? Want to know why your mom left? I’d start by asking what he did to her. He uses his position to hurt people, and he’ll never stop until he faces the consequences.”
“I get it. I promise, I—”
“Make it up to me,” he shouts, and I can tell by the way he’s standing, by electricity like static in the air, heat like a spotlight on my skin, that Jameson’s at his boiling point. That what I said about looking at burned bodies started a chain reaction. He has to let it out. “Try your best.Make it up to me.”
Snowball stirs in his cage, tweeting in an irritated, sleepy way.
I should be terrified. My body shakes, but it’s not from that kind of deep fear. It’s because this demand he’s making isn’t a threat, though it sounds like it. Jameson’s anger is like a bedsheet over his grief. He doesn’t believe he’ll feel better. He believes it’s his fault.
Jameson’s not forcing me to make it better. He’s asking me to try in the only way he can.
I could sayno. I think, if I’d put up a genuine fight, if I’d truly hated the things he made me do, he’d have stopped. He’d have pulled himself back from the brink.
I want to let him go over.
“Okay.” I say it as softly as I can, and then I drop the sheet. It falls to the floor. Jameson’s eyes follow it to the floor, and then they follow me as I get to my knees. I put my hands in my lap, tilt my chin, and meet his eyes. “I’m right here.”
He stalks across the kitchen, teeth gritted, and takes my jaw in a firm grip. “Open your mouth.”
I do, and Jameson pushes his thumb onto my tongue, deep, then deeper, angling his hand so it stretches my lips. He only stops when I gag on it. Jameson uses his other hand to shove down the band of his sweatpants. His cock springs out, thick and hard, and he takes it in his fist and gives himself a rough stroke like he’s angry about being turned on, like he doesn’t want to need this, but he does.
I can’t help leaning toward him, tongue out.
His grip tightens on my jaw. Jameson holds me still while he thrusts his cock into my mouth.
“Take it,” he orders.
I do.
I suck him like my life depends on it. I keep my hands in my lap, because he seems sowounded, because he seems vulnerable. He needs to be in control. Jameson buries his hands in my hair but doesn’t pull on it. He touches it, uses it to steer my head, fucks my mouth.
It’s not easy. Tears run down my cheeks from the steady rhythm of gagging on him. I’ve never Googled the best blow job tips, but I make some hasty assumptions based on how I sucked him before. I do my best to relax my throat. I do my best to swallow. I do my best to hold still and let the storm pass.
Jameson’s cock pulses against my tongue and he pulls out with a growl. His fist clenches in my hair, and he tugs me out toward the living room. Even in his fury, he doesn’t pull too hard, doesn’thurtme. It breaks my heart for him. He wants justice, and he wants retribution, and a person like Jameson deserves that. But he can’t turn off his awareness of other people, or beings, who need help. He rescued a bird before he kidnapped me. Snowball’s cage is filled with homemaking materials courtesy of Jameson.
We go back to the window seat, and he urges me up by my hair.
This time, he puts me on my hands and knees facing the window, then presses my head down into the cushion.
“Don’t move.”
“I won’t.”
Jameson lets out a breath. I wish I could see his face. I wish I could touchhishair. But most of my body is swept up in a surge of emotions and anticipation and a deep guilt in my bones.
I don’t move.
Things clatter in the bathroom. A medicine cabinet opens and shuts. Somethingthunks against a wall like he’d tossed it toward the hamper and missed.
Then his footsteps return.
If I crane my neck, I can see the outline of his now-naked body in the mirror. Jameson told me not to move, so I tuck my face back into the cushion when he gets closer.
A small plastic bottle falls to the cushion near my face. I can see it out of the corner of my eye.
“Hands,” he snaps.
The only way to give him my hands is to hold them out behind my back, so I do. Fabric slips around my wrists. Tightens. I take a long breath, then release it. If he’s tying my wrists like this, then thisisa storm, and thunderstorms always burn themselves out quickly. He wouldn’t leave me tied up too long. I do my best to relax into the position. Fighting it won’t help. It’s a different kind of athletic project than the aerial hoop, but both take concentration. Both take a certain amount of letting go.
