Which I am also not thinking about holding.
Licking.
Sucking.
Notyet,anyway. Not until I’ve earned my way back in.
I clear my throat. “I could tell you, but I might get something wrong.”
“High-level overview.”
“That we need to set a date to fulfill your obligation to me per auction terms.”
Captain Lavalier, I have dutifully accepted that you won what I offered, which is only what I offended and nothing I didn’t offramp, even though I object to your use of Canadian Ehs as currency in an American auction, and so you can pick one single date lasting no more than 3 hours from sunrise to sunset to get schooled so bad you’ll be crying for your mama when my creatures come up with new and inventive ways to murder your creches over tea.
Yes, I memorized it.
Autocorrects and misspellings and all.
It was badass Addie with a hint ofwhat the fuck just happenedand a dash of alcohol.
But that text isn’t what pushed me into acceptance of what I need to do.
No, the privilege of understanding and acceptance came courtesy of the next text she sent me. Which I won’t be mentioning.
She can read it herself in her sent messages later.
Her hand brushes mine and tangles in her soapy locks. “It’s time to rinse.”
“Okay.”
“Turn around. I think I can do this one-handed.”
I obey, turning my back to her, and I start counting the water droplets on the shower door.
And that’s when my mouth decides it doesn’t need my brain in order to say things. “I don’t trust people who don’t see you as a woman until you put on a dress.”
There’s a heavy pause behind me. I can’t hear her breathing over the flow of the water, but I swear I can feel her pulse tick up.
Or maybe that’s mine and I’m projecting.
“Okay,” she says quietly, but it’s more of a question than a statement.
“It pissed me off that it took you putting on a dress for half the city to realize you’re a woman. They didn’t fucking deserve to win you, and I don’t trust what they would’ve tried if they had.”
I was simply almost-naked a minute ago.
Now I’m naked and exposed and vulnerable.
Admitting to the last woman I let myself care about that I overstepped last night.
And I know I overstepped.
I overstepped in stopping by when she didn’t answer my texts this morning asking if she was feeling okay.
I overstepped in doing her dishes. I overstepped in fixing her breakfast and coffee. I overstepped in picking up her living room and letting myself contemplate starting her laundry for her.
I’m overstepping in letting part of my brain hope that she’s looking atmyass now as our positions are reversed.
