Page 114 of ClickBack

“You couldn’t know everything I would do with twenty minutes.”

“I can still tell you.”

I squeeze his hand. His answer is small enough that I believe he can keep it. I don’t need him to promise I will never feel foolish again. I would like to spend less time getting ready to.

“The other night,” I say, “when you watched me with the toy, I thought I’d be embarrassed afterward.”

“Were you?”

“No. That surprised me more than what I did.” I smile a little. “I woke up wanting to kiss you. I didn’t lie there making rules about what I wouldn’t do again.”

He touches my cheek. “You know I liked it.”

“Yes.”

“I liked you after it, too.”

My eyes sting. It is an embarrassingly direct thing to need to hear, but I need it. He sees that and moves his hand to the back of my head, holding me close while I decide whether I can answer without crying.

“You can do every filthy thing you want with me and wake up the same good woman,” he says.

I laugh against his chest.

“That’s your reassurance?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I heard you.”

“Then stop looking like I need to find a better sentence.”

I lift my face and kiss him. He lets me finish, then kisses me again before I can settle back down. I have spent so many years treating this part of myself as something to keep from interfering with the rest. Here he is, holding me in my own bed, apparently able to recognize all of me at once.

We stay that way until the commercial ends. Then he takes the remote, raises the volume, and asks which wall started the trouble.

I point it out. He has immediate questions about the contractor’s deposit, the client’s decision to keep working with him, and why the man is wearing shoes on their new floor. By the next commercial, I have my head on his shoulder and am laughing too hard to defend anybody involved.

His phone lights up on the nightstand. Graves is on his way back. Jarrett answers, then looks at me.

“Friday,” he says.

“Yes.”

“You picking up the dress?”

“After eleven.”

“I’ll be here at seven.”

“Where are we going?”

He tells me, with the address, and I kiss him for answering without making me work for it.

Downstairs, he picks up my robe and holds it while I put my arms in. He ties the belt, considers his work, then loosens it just enough to look inside.

“Go home,” I tell him.

“I’m going.”