Page 49 of The Devil’s Feather

He groaned. “I hate saying this, but the answer to both is Molly. Two long, torturous years of trying to be someone I am not. Had a couple of false starts after that and decided to stay single until I un-fucked my head. I am glad I did,” he stroked my back, “because I am in a much better place now. And you?”

“I technically dated Marcus longer—four years—but David was the last one. I guess I should be used to cheaters by now, but he hurt me worse than the rest. He was very manipulative and made me question my perception of reality. Gaslighting, I guess.”

“No one should be used to betrayal. I certainly never got used to it.” Rafael’s arms tightened around me. “I will refrain from making outright threats against that fuckhead, since that seems to upset you. But I am thinking them.”

“I hope David spills his coffee in his lap every time you think of him.” I wormed higher up Rafael’s torso so my neck could relax. “More annoying questions, sorry. Have you been with more women or men? Or other genders?”

“More men, but my time in WeHo skews that number. Relationship-wise, it is fairly balanced, with fewer nonbinary people because they are fewer in general.”

I swirled my hand in the water, formulating my next question. “If you don’t like to be touched, do you, uh, touch yourself?”

“You mean, do I jerk off?” His blatant amusement made me want to drown myself. “Not as such. Are you familiar with self-flagellation?”

Oh god. I propped myself up on his chest. “Is that why you have the scars on your back?”

Rafael traced my lips with a lazy finger. “One reason. The others are less pleasant.”

“Sorry.” I touched the faint scar beside his mouth. He turned his head and kissed my hand. I needed a lighter topic. “What’s your type? Does it vary by gender expression?”

He shrugged, sloshing water over the side of the tub. “I do not have one. I said brains, and I meant it. Personality, talent, and intellect hook me. I have been with all sorts. Convention does not equate to attraction for me.”

“Do you think you might be demisexual? Like, needing to fall in love or have some kind of emotional connection first before feeling physical attraction? That’s where I land.”

“Possible. Probable.” His fingers stroked slowly through my hair.

“Have you always been out as bi?”

“Not while I lived in Türkiye. I did not understand myself then. Communal showers in the military, as a confused, repressed young man, were a unique challenge. When I moved to LA, my industry colleagues decided I must be gay and dragged me to the clubs. Once I was more comfortable expressing myself, I quickly realized my sexuality was more fluid.” He tugged at my hair. “What is your type apart from ‘funny assholes who are smarter than everyone else’? Are you actually straight? You never said.”

“More or less straight, I think. I’m open to other options, but I’ve only ever dated cisgender men.” Assholes. I’ve only ever dated assholes hiding behind sensitive, progressive façades. At least Rafael is upfront with his assholery.

“My condolences.”

“Seriously. My body count is seven—eight or nine if you count some low-stakes fooling around—because I prefer long-term relationships.” I trailed my fingers down his arm. “There are certain features I think are attractive, but they don’t make or break my initial draw to anyone. Just a nice bonus.”

“And those are?”

I tried, unsuccessfully, not to blush. “I think long, hooked noses are sexy.”

“What luck! I have enough nose to donate the extra to three people.”

“Stop that!” I smacked him, splashing myself in the process. “Besides, you’d look silly with a little snubbed nose. It wouldn’t suit your bone structure.”

The eye crinkles. Lord save me. Somehow ‘crow’s feet’ didn’t adequately describe the lines around his eyes.

“I’m glad you didn’t Botox your face.” I traced up his frown lines over his nose to the vertical lines between his brows and the charming crinkles at the outer corners of his eyes. “Obviously, you can if you want to. I just think the lines are handsome.”

Those crinkles deepened with his smile, and he swept a thumb across my forehead. “I do not care for the frozen, plastic look on anyone. I will still love you if you decide to get filler in your lips, but I will be grumpy about it. Feels like kissing sausages.” He shuddered.

My chest loosened. Rare to come across a man who didn’t mind signs of aging in women. “Pfft. I’m surprised you don’t have any grey hair.”

“I have some, but it is diffused.”

“I have loads, but I color my hair because I prefer bright colors, not because I’m trying to cover it. I actually like grey.”

He nodded. “Grey would look nice on you.”

“That’s sweet of you to say.” I took his hand and kissed the back of it. “You’re very deliberate with your hands, too, and I find that incredibly attractive.”