"Like—" Emmy's face was on fire. "Incorporating things. Toys. Role play. Voyeurism. Multiple partners. I don't know, Grant, use your imagination."
"I'd say I'm open." His voice had dropped lower. "With the right person. Someone I trust completely. I'm not interested in performance or checking boxes. But if something makes her feel good?" He held her gaze. "I want to know about it." He paused. "But no sharing. Any woman of mine is mine alone, and I expect the same from her."
Emmy wrote:
OPEN
TRUST
MONOGAMOUS
…in handwriting that looked like she'd had a stroke.
"Your turn."
"I'm not answering that."
"Reciprocity, Em."
"Fine. Traditional. Mostly." She stared at the paper. "I don't know. I've never been with someone who made me want to... explore."
The silence that followed had weight.
Emmy refused to look at him.
"Next question," Grant said, and his voice was rougher than before.
Emmy looked at the questionnaire. The next question made her want to throw the whole thing into the fireplace.
"What—" She cleared her throat. "What's your most common fantasy? The one you find yourself returning to."
"Pass."
"You can't pass. You made me answer the last one."
"Fine." Grant was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, he wasn't looking at her anymore—he was looking at the darkening windows, and his voice had dropped into something raw and unprotected. "Someone who knows me. All of it—the good parts, the broken parts, the parts I don't show anyone. Someone who's seen me at my worst and still wants me. Not the jersey. Not the name. Me." He turned back to her. "That's the fantasy. Being wanted for who I actually am."
Emmy couldn't breathe.
"Your turn," Grant said quietly.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
"Someone who already knows." The words came out barely above a whisper. "Someone I don't have to explain myself to. Who knows what I need before I have to ask." She pulled the blanket tighter around herself. "Someone I don't have to pretend with."
The brownstone was very quiet. Just the distant sound of traffic on Commonwealth Ave, the tick of a clock somewhere in another room.
"Been faking a lot of orgasms, have you?"
Emmy's head snapped up. Grant's expression was unreadable—somewhere between teasing and something darker, something that made her stomach flip.
She snapped the notebook closed and stood on wobbly legs.
"I should go. Early morning. You have practice."
"Em—"
"Thank you for dinner. And for being honest." She was already pulling out her phone, scrolling to her calendar, gratefulfor something to do with her hands. "You marked tomorrow night as available, five to seven. I have a date for you."
