To come inside and then comeinside, if I were being absolutely truthful.
Hendrix stepped out of the way, gesturing with an outstretched arm for me to step into the living room. His house was indeed the same floorplan as mine, but looked a lot like mine had when I’d inherited it. The carpet had seen better days and so had the ceilings, but from what I remembered, the place was a short-term rental anyway. No point dumping money into something that had a turnover rate as high as it did.
He closed the door behind me, a deafening click as the deadbolt slid into place. Since I knew my way around, I went to the kitchen. The light was better and there were fewer soft surfaces for me to fuck him on. It was safer in the kitchen for both of us.
When I settled with my back against his pantry and my arms crossed over my chest, he asked again, “What did you want to talk about?”
His kitchen didn’t have an island.
“Expectations.”
I didn’t think it was the right word, but I didn’t have a better one. If I hadn’t been paying attention, I would have missed the flare of recognition that sparked in Hendrix’s eyes at the implication, though.
“Do you mean guidelines?”
“I mean expectations,” I said. “Rules, if you’d rather.”
“Seems…” Hendrix licked his lips, searching for the next word with far more care than I’d used in the first place.
For the first time since I met Hendrix which, to be fair, hadn’t been terribly long ago, I wondered if our interests might align on more levels than just the most basic.
“How do you like to fuck?” I asked.
His cheeks burned, a rich shade of red that reminded me of a Bing cherry on top of a sundae.
And sucked.
“Excuse me?”
I dragged my tongue across the front of my teeth, not sure about much beyond my belief that Hendrix heard me right the first time.
“I know that sleeping with you won’t be good for me. Or rather, it’ll betoogood, which will end up being bad for both of us,” I told him.
“Is that so?”
“I know myself well enough.” My arms fell to my sides without much more explanation than I’d already offered.
“Do you want to know why I said I don’t date men your age?” Hendrix cocked his head to the side, the red on his cheeks flushing down his throat and disappearing behind the collar of his shirt.
“Sure.”
“Because men like you think you can make decisions for men like me.” He pointed a finger at me, taking a step closer like he was ready to stab the words right into my sternum.
“Men like me.”
“Young and arrogant.”
“Assertive,” I corrected, straightening my shoulders. Maybe I’d been wrong about him earlier because I’d never met a man willing to go toe to toe with me the way he was about to who also wanted to find himself over my knee with a pair of dirty underwear shoved halfway down his throat.
Disappointing.
“Smug,” he said.
“Confident.”
He pushed the tip of his finger against my chest, right over my heart, which we both realized was beating far faster than the situation required. He glanced down at the place his skin touched my shirt and quickly back up until he caught my eye.
“I don’t make decisions for anyone,” I promised him. “Unless they want me to.”
