Page 92 of Carnal Urges
Watching me chew, he caresses my cheek. He murmurs, “Your face is red.”
“Humiliation does that to me.”
“You’re not being humiliated. You’re being worshipped. You’re just too proud to know the difference.”
“Usually when I’m being worshipped by a man, he’s the one in this position.”
“I’m not your usual man. This isn’t your usual situation. None of the old rules apply.”
I glance down, avoiding his eyes. He allows it for a moment, until he gets impatient.
“Talk to me.”
“I don’t like to think of myself as someone who’s irrational.”
He knows exactly what I mean. “You can be a feminist and still want to be dominated by a man in bed.”
“Gloria Steinem would be so disappointed in me.”
“Gloria Steinem got married, lass. The woman who popularized the phrase ‘A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle’ eventually wanted a husband. It’s biological. Evolutionary. Even the strongest woman needs a man.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Barf.”
He chuckles. “The opposite is also true. Even the strongest man needs a woman. We’re made for each other.”
“How do gay people fit into that gendered philosophy?”
“They’re made for each other, too. It’s not about tab A fits into slot B. It’s about who you are as a human. What turns you on. What you need. Everyone has a match. A fit. Yin to yang, light to darkness. It’s when we fight it and judge it that we run into problems. Open your mouth.”
He’s nudging my lips with another forkful of salad. I’m too caught up in the conversation to protest. Around a mouthful of salad, I say, “How is it possible that despite your rather caveman approach to things, you almost sound liberated?”
“Maybe I am. Is that so hard to fathom?”
“This from the man who ordered me off a plane with a rocket launcher. Where did you get that thing, anyway?”
“I keep an arsenal of weapons in the back of every SUV. You never know when you might need the odd machine gun or hand grenade.”
I say drily, “Right. How silly of me. One needs to be prepared. What a Boy Scout.”
He chuckles again. “Believe it or not, I was. Ireland’s version, anyway. I was involved with Scouting Ireland almost until I went into the military.”
Surprised by that tidbit of information, I raise my brows. “You were in the military?”
He pauses to take a bite of the salad for himself. It seems deliberate. Like an avoidance tactic. After he swallows, he simply says, “Aye.”
He’s not meeting my eyes.
“Declan.”
His wary gaze flashes up to meet mine.
“We can do Don’t Ask–Don’t Tell if you want. We don’t have to share our sad stories. It’s probably safer that way.”
“Safer?”
I’m flustered by his penetrating look. It seems to say he knows I’m trying desperately to protect myself from him. “I meant smarter.”
Examining my expression, he sweeps his thumb over my lips. “Don’t hide. When I said you were safe with me, I meant it.”
