"Come here."
She comes.
8
SIMONE
Igo.
Cross the couch. Settle onto his thigh sideways with my knees folded, one hand braced on his chest. His arm comes around my back like it's been there before.
"Closer."
I scoot closer.
His other hand slides up my thigh and stops at my hip. Just rests. Heavy and warm through the leggings. He's not rushing. A man who's never rushed anything in his life.
"Before we do anything," he says, low, "I need a couple things from you."
"Okay."
"Safe word."
"Revelstoke."
He almost laughs. Almost. The corner of his mouth moves.
"Too soon."
"Never too soon."
"Revelstoke. Okay. You use it, we stop. Hard. You use yellow, we slow. Green means go. You can say any of those three without explaining."
"I know how it works."
"I know you do. I'm saying it anyway."
"Okay."
"Limits."
"No blood. No permanent marks where my mother could see them at Thanksgiving. No degradation talk. I don't like it. I like praise."
"I know you like praise."
My stomach tightens.
"How."
"Because your eyes did a thing this morning in the shack when I told you you did good, and I've been thinking about it all day."
"Oh."
"What else."
"I haven't. Not in three years. So. Go slow."
"I'm always slow."
