“It doesn’t come with a playbook, Jesse.” I pulled his hand down so he sat with me, the ground warm and dry. “It’s just meant to feel good.”
His eyes darkened, that pirate look that made me want to hear him call me his good girl again and feel his hand sting intoxicatingly between my legs.
“I know lots of ways to make you feel good.”
I laughed. “You’ve only shown me a couple.”
“I can show you more. Did you like what we did last night? This morning in bed?” He swallowed, and I saw concern cross his face.
“A lot.”
“Did you prefer the shower?”
I shook my head, pressing the palm of my hand against his jaw, feeling the stubble that had grown there. “I liked both. I enjoyed both — I wouldn’t prefer one over the other.”
He nodded. “Are you saying that because you know what type of sex I’ve been into?”
“No. If I didn’t like how you were on the chair or in bed, I would tell you. I don’t believe in telling lies, Jesse.”
He didn’t answer, his dark eyes studying me like I was some rare creature he’d just encountered for the first time.
“Did you like the shower?”
“Yes. It scared me.”
“Why?” Although what he’d said didn’t surprise me, I was just surprised he’d said it so bluntly.
“Because I’ve never had sex — not since pretty much my first time — where it wasn’t me in control.”
“You were in control in the shower.”
He shook his head. “That was all you.”
“Disagree. You could’ve moved me at any time. You could’ve told me to stop. You could’ve picked me up and had me against the shower wall — which I know you thought about but you chose not to do it. So you can’t say you didn’t have control, Jesse. It was just different.”
He looked to the ground. “Just like you could’ve said no on the chair or in bed.”
“Or now.”
He looked back up at me. “Now? We’re outside —”
I laughed. “Have you never had al fresco sex before?”
“Al fresco? How very middle class.”
I laughed back, lying now with my head on his lap. The sky was azure blue, cloudless. No thunderstorms or showers lurked right now. “So you’ve never fucked anyone against a wall outside? Even as a kid?”
“No. Always indoors. Not necessarily in a bed. Often not in a bed.”
“You mean you have a dungeon? A sex dungeon? Can I see it? It’d be really good research.” I tugged at his T-shirt.
“So that’s what this is all about. I’m research?”
There was enough teasing in his tone to know he wasn’t serious. “Completely. I have writer’s block, and I can’t possibly finish my next book without seeing your sex dungeon.”
“Jerrica, I don’t have a sex dungeon —”
“What about one of those sex benches? Or that horse thing? A selection of handcuffs, maybe?”
