“Not like that. Not as a deflection.”
“It isn’t a deflection. It’s a blowjob. There’s a difference.”
“Not with you there isn’t.”
The accuracy of that statement is offensive.
He eases me back onto the bed, careful of my ankle in a way that makes me want to scream, and kisses me again. There’s something almost angry about it. Not at me, exactly. At the situation. At the fact that I won’t give him what he actually wants, so we’re here instead, trying to communicate through the only language I’ll let us speak tonight.
I pull him down on top of me because I need the weight of him, the solidness. I need something to push against. My shirt disappears. His ruined one joins it. His hands are everywhere, on my chest, my ribs, the waistband of my pants, and I’m arching into him, trying to set a pace he won’t let me set.
The cast is a problem. It’s always a problem. I can wrap both legs around him, but I still can’t get the leverage I want, and the frustration of it feeds directly into the energy between us.
“Stop treating me like I’m fragile,” I say.
“Stop pretending your ankle doesn’t exist.”
“It’s just an ankle.”
He shifts my cast onto a pillow with the practiced ease of someone who’s been managing my injury for weeks. Even now. Even in the middle of this. He’s taking care of me without asking permission.
I hate how much I don’t hate it.
My pants are gone. His too. I hook my good leg around his hip and pull him against me.
“I want to ride you,” I say.
Leo’s gaze drops to my cast. “We’ve had this conversation. Every time.”
“And every time you’ve given in. Consistency is a virtue, Leo.”
“Archie.”
“Wasn’t a suggestion.”
He gives me a look—half exasperation, half something darker—but he lets me push him onto his back. I straddle him, bad ankle carefully positioned to the side, and reach for the lube on the nightstand.
This is better. I’m in control up here. I can set the pace, the angle, the terms of engagement.
I prep myself while Leo watches, his hands gripping my thighs, and his expression does something complicated that I refuse to interpret.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re taking notes.”
“I’m always taking notes.”
“Well, stop it. This is sex, not a board meeting.”
“My board meetings are nothing like this.”
“I should hope not.” I sink down on him, and we both groan. “Although it would certainly liven up the quarterly projections.”
“Are you going to keep talking?”
“Have you met me?”
