Page 27 of For Real

Jouissance, is what I think.9

Which annoys me because that’s the name of my mum’s most famous painting. The one I really hate and really, really don’t want to be thinking about now. Eww.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

How could he tell? I’m still face-first in a bed.

“Yeah.” I sort of nod into the sheets.

“Thank you.” He gently tucks a few pieces of sweat-heavy hair out of my way, and I shiver. And then I guess I’m unconscious.

* * *

When I wake up again, I’ve been cleaned up, wrapped up, and I’m lying in his arms. If he’d been asleep too, he’s awake now. He’s not staring at me, or anything creepy like that, but his eyes are open. He’s got that closed-down, faraway look he sometimes gets.

“Uh, sorry. I think I nodded off.”

He smiles, and he’s back with me, at least a little bit. “It’s quite all right.”

I don’t know why, considering not so long ago my arse was sky-high, but I’m kind of awkward now. It’s just not the sort of thing people usually do for you—hold you while you sleep or fuck you into oblivion first. But it’s so goddamn nice of him, it makes me sad.

Another of his secrets, I guess. How incredibly kind he is behind that stern mouth and those cold eyes. I don’t think anybody has been quite this kind to me my entire life. Or done so much to make me feel special.10

And I suddenly realise there’s other fantasies to go alongside the filthy, kinky ones. I want to cook for him. Make him smile more. Do something about the dark circles under his eyes.

I want to fucking take care of him back.

Jesus fucking Christ. Could I be any more of an idiot? I can barely live my own life competently. What the fuck could I contribute to his?

I move a bit and…I’m sticky and sore. In all sorts of places. “I should probably be going.”

He nods. This time, there’s no hesitation. He pulls away and—urgh—I already miss the way he holds me.

I think about asking if he wants to see me again. I could do it really cool and casual-like. Except, of course I can’t. My dominant (no pun intended) discourse seems to be needy as fuck.

But I don’t think I am needy, not really. It’s just I’ve never come this close to getting something I wanted before. Not that he’s a thing.

So it’s hard to just be mature and let it—him—go.

But I get that I have to. He might enjoy kneeling for me and fucking me and maybe that could be enough for me, but considering the epic oratory required to get him to that point, I reckon it would be a hard sell to him.

I wriggle out of bed and pad gingerly around his bedroom, collecting my clothes. I don’t catch him doing it, but somehow I get the sense he’s looking at me. The thing is, I’m not exactly a striptease master at the best of times, so I have literally no clue how to make putting my shit back on even remotely appealing.

On the other hand, it’s not the worst feeling in the world: being watched from bed by a naked man while you both think about the sex you’ve just had. At least, I hope that’s what he’s thinking about. He ought to be. It was totally three-Michelin-star sex.

Normally, I’d be dying and scrambling about, but under his gaze I sort of start making a show of myself. I pick up things and stretch probably a bit more than I need to. I even catch myself doing that bend-and-snap thing from Legally Blonde. I don’t have much snap, but I’m hoping my bend makes up for it.

“Toby.” Oh, I love his severe voice. It makes me want to sort of crack him open like a mussel. “Are you trying to make me fuck you again?”

Ooh! “Is that an option?”

He sighs, and I can’t tell if it’s impatience or regret. “No. No matter how much you twitch your pretty little arse at me.”

I’ve got a pretty little arse? Awesome.

The first time I see myself in the full-length mirror, I kind of freak out a bit. I mean, after I’ve dealt with the pang of disappointment that we didn’t think to fuck in front of it. But, God, my hair looks like an electrocuted hedgehog, and there’s stubble rash all over my face, and my eyes are completely huge like I’m tripping or something. And don’t even get me started on the mess of my neck and the finger-shaped bruises on my hips.

Best.

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