He runs his nose up my shin and kisses my knee before resting his cheek against me. His breath coasts along my body.
I whisper, “Pro.”
Hesmiles.
I dissolve the final threads of my very stupid plan to get myself rejected on purpose, before I’d either find myself hurt or…worse…rejected by mistake. Every cell in me shifts objectives fromrejectionto begging, pleading, and vying for acception. “Damion,” I whisper.
“Yes, my love?”
I lose all the air in my lungs.
His eyes flick up to me, questioning.
I say, “How…do I ask you to…ravish me?”
He moves off my leg with a final kiss, rises to his imposing height, and settles his hand on the bed behind me. Leaning over me, he cups my chin, holds my gaze to his, and rumbles, “Probably…exactly like that.” He lowers his attention to Macaroon, askew on his sheets. “Did you…come here intending to be ravished?”
“I… No.”
He nods. “Good. I’m glad you didn’t bring an audience with intent.” He attempts to clear some roughness from his throat, and fails. “Why…did you bring the pig?”
I flush, shoulders bunching. “E…emotional support.”
“Ah.” His eyes hit, piercing, sharp. “For?”
My inevitable rejection. Or what I thought was to be an inevitable rejection. Now, I suppose it’ll be for my inevitable regrets in wake of blatant idiocy as sponsored by…hormones? Yeah, likely hormones. Where am I in my cycle right now? Probably ovulation.
Oh dear.
I cannot allow my harlot stupidity to result inpregnancy.
Frail, I say, “Do you…have protection?” as thoughthe only 100% effective protection is abstinenceisn’t repeating itself in my brain about seventeen times a second.
Damion says, “No.”
No.
No.
That’s it, then.
I need to pull myself together. This is bad. Dangerous.Bad, bad, bad dangerous.
I…need to say, Get Thee Behind Me, Hormones.
I simply must locate a brain cell. A single one.Please. I only need one good and proper functioning brain cell.
Instead, I find myself freeing a pathetic whimper as Damion leans in, presses his lips to my forehead, and convinces me that I cantotallybe a single mom.
For the record, I can’t. I can barely take care of my own emotional regulation, clearly. But…
“You didn’t answer me.” He dapples kisses against my face. “What did you think you’d need emotional support for, precious?”
“Oh…” I cannot find a full breath. “…you know.” I swallow, very hard. “The general casualties that result as a direct consequence of being…me?”
His lips find my neck, and he hums something like a response against my throat. “We’re in trouble,” he says.
That is the very correct response to hearing that I require an emotional-support pig on account of existing, yes.
