“You’re sparing me the details, huh?”
“Do you want to know them?”
He shrugged. “If they’re relevant.”
“I don’t know how relevant. The point is, there was rope, there was duct tape, Fallon tried to be all rough and dom—”
This was the part that was like being naked in front of a crowd. Like having your comedy bomb, your karaoke suck. It was the part where you put your truth on the line and someone laughed or lost his erection or walked out. When the part of you that had come out of the closet crawled back in.
Except Kincaid’s color was high, his eyes dark, and he was leaning closer to her.
“You loved it, didn’t you. You loved the rope and the tape and even whatever dorky thing Fallon was trying to do. You were wet and panting and begging—”
He was making her wet right now. The way he was looking at her, the way he was celebrating what she’d felt that night, the bite of the rope into her wrists, her mouth clamped shut so breath had to come fast and narrow through her nose, the way the words and the moans and the need had swelled in her throat, and when it couldn’t find its way out, had swollen her breasts and made her nipples tight and sharp, had flooded her lower body with heat.
Kincaid, by knowing her, by wanting her, was redeeming her, rescuing her.
Fallon had stopped. Stared at her in consternation.
You
like
it,
he’d accused.
She’d still had hope at that point that he was going to get an erection, that he was going to finish what he’d started. Even though all evidence pointed contrary (in this case, down).
I’ve never seen you like this,
Fallon had said.
I’ve never seen you this into it.
Hurt in his voice
,
which had distracted her from her own hurt. She’d jumped to salve his.
She told Kincaid what Fallon had said. She imitated the tone of his voice, as if her desire had been a betrayal.
“You’re so into it. It’s fucking hot,” Kincaid said definitively, and she felt like the Grinch when his heart grows three sizes.
She wanted to hug him, or to throw herself into his arms, to rub her face against his face or his chest, but she didn’t.
“We tried to go back to normal,” she said.
Kincaid stroked her hair, and
God,
it felt good. “Bet that didn’t work too well,” he said.
She shook her head. “I think he needed to find a way to make me the one who was broken. He started saying stuff. About how—he’d looked it up online, and women who liked to be tied up, or treated roughly, or who liked pain, some huge percentage of them had been abused as children. And did I think I’d been abused? He finally—” In some ways, this was the ultimate humiliation, because he’d managed to erode her own certainty, and that had never happened to Lily before. “He convinced me I needed therapy.”
Kincaid whistled. “And you went?”
“He found someone for me to see, someone who specialized in uncovering repressed memories.”
“You didn’t have any.”
She liked the way he said it, as though he
knew.
“No.”
“So you dumped the asshole and got the hell out of there.”
Her frustration with herself, her mortification at how things had turned out, flared up. “That’s what I should have done. But that’s not what happened. For better or for worse, I loved him. Until the rope and the duct tape, I hadn’t even questioned things. We lived together, he was my mentor, I worked for him. My life had gradually been subsumed by his, and I didn’t think twice about it, because he was a good guy and I loved him. And I was pretty sure I could be who he wanted me to be.”
“Give up the rough stuff completely?” It didn’t feel like condemnation, not in Kincaid’s scratched-up voice. Just—curiosity.
“I mean, it wasn’t my ideal, but I had this whole life built around loving him, and so I committed myself to doing whatever had to be done. I saw the therapist, amped up my enthusiasm for whatever we were doing in bed so he wouldn’t have to stop and
“Do you want to know them?”
He shrugged. “If they’re relevant.”
“I don’t know how relevant. The point is, there was rope, there was duct tape, Fallon tried to be all rough and dom—”
This was the part that was like being naked in front of a crowd. Like having your comedy bomb, your karaoke suck. It was the part where you put your truth on the line and someone laughed or lost his erection or walked out. When the part of you that had come out of the closet crawled back in.
Except Kincaid’s color was high, his eyes dark, and he was leaning closer to her.
“You loved it, didn’t you. You loved the rope and the tape and even whatever dorky thing Fallon was trying to do. You were wet and panting and begging—”
He was making her wet right now. The way he was looking at her, the way he was celebrating what she’d felt that night, the bite of the rope into her wrists, her mouth clamped shut so breath had to come fast and narrow through her nose, the way the words and the moans and the need had swelled in her throat, and when it couldn’t find its way out, had swollen her breasts and made her nipples tight and sharp, had flooded her lower body with heat.
Kincaid, by knowing her, by wanting her, was redeeming her, rescuing her.
Fallon had stopped. Stared at her in consternation.
You
like
it,
he’d accused.
She’d still had hope at that point that he was going to get an erection, that he was going to finish what he’d started. Even though all evidence pointed contrary (in this case, down).
I’ve never seen you like this,
Fallon had said.
I’ve never seen you this into it.
Hurt in his voice
,
which had distracted her from her own hurt. She’d jumped to salve his.
She told Kincaid what Fallon had said. She imitated the tone of his voice, as if her desire had been a betrayal.
“You’re so into it. It’s fucking hot,” Kincaid said definitively, and she felt like the Grinch when his heart grows three sizes.
She wanted to hug him, or to throw herself into his arms, to rub her face against his face or his chest, but she didn’t.
“We tried to go back to normal,” she said.
Kincaid stroked her hair, and
God,
it felt good. “Bet that didn’t work too well,” he said.
She shook her head. “I think he needed to find a way to make me the one who was broken. He started saying stuff. About how—he’d looked it up online, and women who liked to be tied up, or treated roughly, or who liked pain, some huge percentage of them had been abused as children. And did I think I’d been abused? He finally—” In some ways, this was the ultimate humiliation, because he’d managed to erode her own certainty, and that had never happened to Lily before. “He convinced me I needed therapy.”
Kincaid whistled. “And you went?”
“He found someone for me to see, someone who specialized in uncovering repressed memories.”
“You didn’t have any.”
She liked the way he said it, as though he
knew.
“No.”
“So you dumped the asshole and got the hell out of there.”
Her frustration with herself, her mortification at how things had turned out, flared up. “That’s what I should have done. But that’s not what happened. For better or for worse, I loved him. Until the rope and the duct tape, I hadn’t even questioned things. We lived together, he was my mentor, I worked for him. My life had gradually been subsumed by his, and I didn’t think twice about it, because he was a good guy and I loved him. And I was pretty sure I could be who he wanted me to be.”
“Give up the rough stuff completely?” It didn’t feel like condemnation, not in Kincaid’s scratched-up voice. Just—curiosity.
“I mean, it wasn’t my ideal, but I had this whole life built around loving him, and so I committed myself to doing whatever had to be done. I saw the therapist, amped up my enthusiasm for whatever we were doing in bed so he wouldn’t have to stop and
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