Page 70 of For Real

For a little while, Toby said nothing. I had absolutely no idea what he was thinking. Another thin line, but this time I was powerless, waiting for him to choose his side. Choose me. He slithered off the sofa and came fully in my arms. His answer was a kiss.

And we kissed for a long time, softly, Toby’s tongue sweeping mine. The last time we’d brought our bodies together on (well, in the vicinity of) my sofa, it had been in passion, our kisses clanging cymbals, so different from these. But in some strange way they felt the same, kisses that were their own journey. I’d forgotten it could be like this, but each and every time, whether it was fast or slow, rough or sweet, Toby reminded me.

At last, we parted, but he stayed close, both of us still on the floor—which should have been ridiculous. Oh, why did I care? Who was here to judge us, except me?

Toby tucked his head against my shoulder and wriggled his hand into mine. “It doesn’t matter how you do it. Just that you do.”

I smiled, grateful for his stubborn affection, his conviction that, whoever I was or whatever it meant, it was right for me to be that way. It had been such a long time since I’d talked about any of this. I hadn’t thought I needed to. With Robert it had been accepted as part of me and therefore part of us, just like everything else, as unchangeable and irrelevant as the colour of my eyes, my inability to roll my tongue, or my preference to suffer and his to make me.

It wasn’t long before Toby stirred again, peeping up at me through his lashes in what he clearly thought was an appealing fashion. And he was right. “Can I ask something else? And don’t say you just did, because that shit isn’t funny.”

“Um. Yes?”

“Even if it’s weird?”

“Especially if it’s weird.”

“You don’t like…what you like…because of, like, stuff, do you?”

I ran the words through my head a few times trying to make sense of them. “I don’t like what I like because of, like, stuff?”

I felt him laughing before I heard it. It was an unexpected intimacy. “Thanks for making me sound like a moron. I meant…the sex thing, the kinky sex thing.”

“Oh, I see.” Another reasonably familiar question, though rarely asked as bluntly. “You mean, do I want to be hurt and shamed and denied because I’m stricken with terrible guilt for all the lives I can’t save?”

He stared at me. “I guess that’s a no.”

“That’s a no.” I slid a hand under the hem of his T-shirt and up his back, wanting the simplicity of his skin under my palm. He shuddered a little, his spine shifting against me as he uncurled beneath my touch. I stroked him, smiled, felt light. Content. “This is where you reassure me that you don’t have some trauma to avenge upon my not-particularly-reluctant flesh.”

His eyes flew wide. “God no. I want to hurt you because I love you.”6

And, as some potent mixture of anticipation, tenderness, wanting, and fear flooded me with heat, I believed him.

* * *

Our takeaway arrived a few minutes later, and despite the fact I had a perfectly serviceable dining room just across the hall, we ate on the floor of the living room, surrounded by plastic bags and foil containers.

“You know”—Toby wagged a wooden chopstick at me—“I’ve been reading the internet—”

“You should never read the internet, Toby.”

“Ha-ha. But, yeah, if we were doing this properly, you would be like naked and on your knees and eating from my hand.”

I went still with apprehension. “Um, is that something you’d like?”

He laughed. “No. Not at all.”

“Thank God.”

“Why?” He gave me a wicked, curious look from beneath his lashes. “Would you, if I wanted?”

I groaned, unable to easily articulate or understand the complexities of my reaction. “I–I don’t know. I’ve never done that with anyone. I don’t think I’d like it at all, but there’s part of me that stirs to…to…do something I hated that much for you.”

Toby was quiet, watching me, his fringe falling maddeningly across one eye. How could he stand it? My fingers itched to push it away. “No,” he said finally, with all the conviction I lacked. “No. I’m kind of so totally turned on by the idea of you doing something you hate for me, but I want it to be something I really want, not something I don’t care about.”

Relief swept over me gently. I hadn’t precisely anticipated his answer, but oddly enough it didn’t surprise me. “You know you can do anything you like with me.”

“Yeah, I do.” He grinned. “That’s why I’ve got to make it count.”

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