"Whenever you want, Eden. You just have to ask."
Her breath catches audibly. "Ask?"
"Yes. I'm not going to push. Not going to demand. Not going to show up uninvited at your door in the middle of the night. But if you want to explore more, if you want to understand what else your body can do, if you're curious about what other sensations are possible—all you have to do is ask."
"That's it? I just ask and you'll?—"
"I'll show you. Yes. On your terms. At your pace. You control when and how and what we do."
She's staring at me like I've spoken a foreign language, like the concept of having control over her own pleasure is so alien she can't process it.
"You're giving me control," she says slowly, testing the words. "Over when. Over if."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because that's the only way this works. You have to choose it. Have to want it. Otherwise it's just another man taking from you, and you've had enough of that for one lifetime."
"But you're still taking. You're still keeping me here. Still controlling my life. How is this different?"
Fair question. Uncomfortably fair.
"Because within these walls," I say carefully, "you have choices. Limited ones, yes, constrained by circumstances neither of us can change right now. But choices nonetheless. And one of those choices is whether you want me to show you more about pleasure. About your body. About what you're capable of feeling when fear doesn't control you."
"And if I never ask?"
The question makes my chest tighten, but I keep my expression neutral.
"Then we continue as we have been. Breakfast. Dinner. You read in the library. I work in my office. Nothing changes except now you know what's possible. Now you know what your body can do."
"You'd really be okay with that?"
No. Absolutely not.
I'd go completely insane.
Would spend every waking moment thinking about what could have been, about the pleasure I could give her, about watching her discover herself.
But I can't tell her that.
Can't reveal how much power she already has over me.
"I'd be disappointed," I say instead, which is the understatement of the century. "But I'd respect your decision. Your body, your choice. Always."
She studies my face for a long moment, those intelligent hazel eyes searching for the lie, for the catch, for the trap.
She won't find it.
Because the trap isn't in what I'm saying.
The trap is in the curiosity I've awakened.
The trap is in her body now knowing what pleasure feels like.
The trap is in the three days of space I'm about to give her, during which that curiosity will build and build until she can't stand it anymore.
She picks up her coffee, takes a sip, and sets it down.
