“Did she ever come back?” I asked, hoping.
“Nyet,” he answered with zero emotion. “Not even to the game in Berlin. Not even to birthday party her niece threw for me at club where we met the first time.”
“Wait.” My stomach twisted with the realization that Yom knew when my birthday was, but I had totally missed his. “That night we met… was your birthday?”
“Do not do this,zayka,” he answered wearily.
“Do what?”
“Feel pity for me. I am not puppy in need of saving. Everything I am telling you is in past.”
“Is it, though?” I couldn’t help but ask. “How often do you still have this nightma?—”
I stopped when Yom suddenly shifted, disappearing under the blankets. Before I knew it, I was on my back with his head nestled between my legs.
“Yom, don’t…” I tried to protest when his mouth found my pussy. “Let’s talk about this.”
Warm sensations swirled inside of me, along with his tongue… and I nearly lost my train of thought, but then managed to gasp out the safe word we’d agreed to earlier. “Suitcase, okay? Suitcase! Yom, I don’t want you to distract me with more one-sided pleasure. I want you to talk to me.”
To his credit, Yom immediately stopped. But he wasn’t happy about it. He reappeared above the sheets with a surly, “I do not wish to talk further on this subject.”
“Okay, that’s fine. I can respect your boundary.” I sat back up and eagerly pushed my locs out of my face. “But tell me what I can do for you. How can I give you what you need right now? Just let me…”
I tentatively reached under the blanket and found his flaccid length in my hand. “Let me attend to you, okay?”
For a moment, Yom’s chin dropped to his chest, and his staff swelled to life. But then he shook his head.
“Not that!” He pushed my hand away like I’d burned him. “Stop. I am not wanting this kind of touch from you.”
I snatched back my hand, more out of hurt than respect for his boundaries. The sting of rejection twisted in my chest. “You don’t want me to touch you like you’ve been touching me. Like, all night?”
Yet another mortifying thought occurred to me. “Am I doing it wrong? I mean, a hand job feels pretty self-explanatory. But I’m open to learning if that’s what it takes to?—”
Yom’s granite expression instantly softened into regret. “Zayka, you are doing nothing wrong but being too kind to someone who is not deserving it,” he answered, his eyes sincere, voice heavy.
“It is me.” He took my hands in his. “You are asking what I am needing from you, and I am not—I should not be answering because I am already, as your lesbian friend, Trish, is saying, ‘walking red flag.’”
I mean, she hadn’t lied about that.
I hesitated, unsure if I should press on. But I found myself pulling one hand free to stroke his now stubbled face. “Baby, just tell me.”
“Zayka, I…” He covered my hand with his, kissed my palm, and then paused, as if searching for the right words. He looked away, his jaw clenching. For a moment, I thought he might not answer at all, that he’d pull back again. But then he took a breath and turned to me, his expression filled with both awkwardness and hope.
“I would like rough conversation with you.” He dragged a ragged gray gaze up to mine. “To give me control.”
“Rough conversation?” I repeated. “What does that mean?”
“I would talk to you. While physically… What is the English word…?” He searched, raising his gaze to the ceiling until his face lit up with the answer. “Dominating. I would like to be physically dominating you while I tell you how we will be making relationship from here.”
I knew English was Yom’s third language, but somehow I completely understood what he was trying to say—what he was asking to do, or really, let him do. To me.
But could I? Could I let myself… let him…?
My heart clunked. Then vibrated.
“And if I say ‘suitcase’?’”
“I stop when you say this word,” he rushed to assure me—before wincing. “But maybe what I say before you say it—what I do cannot be unheard?”
