Page 42 of Felix

“No, it’s a great hobby. Very…hip,” he finishes, voice choked.

I swing upright and crawl his way. “Hip?”

His eyes widen. “What are you…”

“I’ll have you know,” I say, grabbing his wrists and tugging until he lands flat on his back, “that this hip hobby is responsible for the miniskirt I’m wearing.”

Emil’s eyes ping down to said skirt. He swallows harshly. “You made that?”

“Mhm. And the white one. And a red one I finished today. Not to mention many, many others you haven’t even seen yet. So tell me again,” I say, leaning down until my face is hovering right above his, “how hip sewing is.”

His eyes dart between my own, his chest brushing mine as it rises and falls. “So hip,” he breathes, the tickle of air from his words making me realize exactly how close we are. Our mouths, inches apart. Our bodies, connected at multiple points. His pulse is feathering beneath my grip, and my own heart starts to race as Emil watches me steadily. For once, he doesn’t look away. As if he’s waiting. Waiting on me.

Sucking in a breath, I sit back, chuckling as I let Emil’s wrists go. “I can’t believe you thought I was eighty.”

He huffs a laugh, blinking as he sits up. His hand brushes my knee, and tingles race over my skin as his fingers skim up my thigh until he reaches the hem of my skirt. He pinches the fabric between his thumb and index finger, rolling it gently.

“It’s really good, Christian,” he says, voice soft. “Remarkable, really.”

“You think so?” I ask, smiling a little shakily.

“Yeah.” His eyes meet mine for an extended moment before he lets the fabric go. “Have you made anything else?”

I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. Shirts and some formalwear.”

He nods, quiet for a moment before he says, “I, uh… I have some studying to do.”

“Of course,” I say, making to scoot off the bed. “I’ll go.”

“You don’t have to,” he says immediately, a blush rising on his cheeks.

I pause. “I won’t distract you if I stay?”

His eyes slip down my body again, drifting over my legs, lingering on my skirt, and then skittering away. “Maybe a little. But it’s fine.”

I should go. I really should, but…

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” he says, sliding off the bed. He grabs a textbook and his laptop before returning, setting both in front of his pillow and lying flat on his stomach. Without a word, he sets to work.

After a moment, I lie down and pull out my phone. The sound of tapping keys is a steady presence next to me as the minutes pass, almost as soothing as the whir of my sewing machine.

I could get used to it.

The scary part is, there’s a little piece of me—one I long thought extinguished—that wants to.

Chapter 11

Emil

I’d like to say I’m more prepared this time when I step onto set for my second live stream video with Christian. And in some ways, I am.

I’m expecting the heady rush of anticipation that sweeps over me. I’m expecting my brain to go somewhat offline. I’m even expecting the tinge of fear that this euphoria will, someday, pass, and I’ll go seeking a more dangerous hit.

That last one is something I’ve talked to my therapist about. She’s assured me I am, in fact, in control of myself, even when I feel anything but. That’s what those exercises in restraint are for. Proving to myself I can step back.

But it’s still something that sits at the periphery of my mind. Because how am I possibly going to find someone who understands this facet of my life? That this is something I crave, possibly even need? That there are limits I have when it comes to my exhibitionism, and those limits aren’t something I feel confident about enforcing when I’m heavily under the influence of my own drug?

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