I’m not scared. If Jonah could pull back at that moment, when he was fucking me senseless, surely he can control the beast within him. It feels safer, not more dangerous.
To me. Not to him. Do I trust his instincts or my own?
When Jonah remains quiet the entire drive back to my place, I know a conversation is brewing. I suspect it’s not one I’m going to like. But I wait for it, asking no questions. The old Lenny Kravitz song on the radio fills my mind as I focus on the lyrics like never before. I tap the beat out on the dashboard of Jonah’s sedan. If he even notices, he gives no sign.
We get home. Jonah leaves his suitcase in the trunk, and my first impulse is to say nothing. Let him go pull himself together. We can deal with this later.
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But “dealing with it later” often turns into “dealing with it never. ” I hate suspense. And Jonah and I are working hard to get to a place of deep, radical honesty. Biting my tongue now is a form of lying.
“Why not bring it in?” I venture. “Stay the night. ”
He hesitates, but he takes the suitcase in. I guess that’s a win.
As soon as we’ve put our stuff down and shucked our coats, I force myself to say, “Something’s weighing on you. What is it?”
Jonah looks at me incredulously. “How can you ask that after yesterday?”
“Okay, it got rough. And I know it was—worse than rough, for you. If you’re worried about me, don’t be. I’ll always tell you when it’s too much for me. Okay? If you’re worried about yourself, just remember, when you needed to stop, you did. The safe word is for both of us. ”
“It’s not that. Not only that, anyway. ” He walks to the corner farthest from me—not that far, given the tininess of my living room. After one deep breath, he finally comes out with it. “We can’t play the games any longer. ”
Oh, no. “We’ve been over this, remember? You said you could stop seeing me as fragile—as a victim—”
“I can, and I have. But I’m not doing this to protect you, Vivienne. I need to protect myself. ”
Jonah gets to have limits too, my voice echoes inside my head. It still feels like I’m watching something precious and irreplaceable being stolen.
“What I turned into yesterday—what I felt the entire time I was in Chicago—it proved to me that Carter did make me in his image. No, not entirely. But enough to treat you like an animal. Enough to want to hurt you. ”
“You’ve slapped me before. Thrown me down. This wasn’t so different. ”
“The hell it wasn’t. ”
I catch myself. Our honesty is precious; I can’t let it slide. “Okay. It was different, but it wasn’t too much to handle. At least it wasn’t for me. ”
“For me, it turned into . . . horror. ” Jonah visibly shudders. “I can’t go there anymore. I can’t. ”
I feel seasick. As I flop onto my sofa, I close my eyes. “You have to do what you have to do,” I manage to say.
No more games. Like anyone else, Jonah has the right to draw his own lines. But the line he’s drawn cuts me off from any sexual satisfaction. “You know why I need it, don’t you?”
“You can come without that fantasy. We both know it has to be possible. You’re more responsive than any other woman I’ve ever been with—hell, you don’t even need me to touch your clit. Your body’s so ready for this. ”
“No shit. My mind is the problem. Whatever you need to do, we’ll do. ”
Jonah studies my expression for what feels like a very long time, before he abruptly says, “Are you in love with me?”
It catches me short, the realization that I’ve never said those words. Never even asked myself if they were true. Jonah Marks has dominated my thoughts for months now, taken possession of me in every way one person can possess another. How could I not have known?
But I did know, of course. I always have. I knew it on a level deeper than words.
Jonah glances away, unsure what to make of my silence. Before I can say anything, though, he begins, “I tried to dislike you, at first. To feel contempt for you. The anger that fueled our games—some of it was real. Because I believed that to you this was only a game. To me it was something so much darker, and I needed it so goddamn much. ”
That part I understand completely. Our shared craving torments us as much as it unites us.
Jonah seems to fill this small room; his raw masculinity changes it. The white slipcovers and piles of paperbacks, the Tiffany-style lamp with its rosy shade—usually I find these surroundings so comfortable, so steadying. He is a stark black line slicing my haven in two.
He continues, “At first I told myself that was all I needed. I tried to deny I needed you, but I did. I do. And I love you, more than I’ve ever loved any other woman. ”
Other guys have told me they loved me. Probably they all meant it at the time. But in the moment I know that no one has ever offered me his soul like Jonah just has.
My throat tightens with unshed tears, and I can’t quite speak. Jonah misinterprets my silence and says, more quietly, “So if there’s anything I need to hear, or know—if you can’t accept this—tell me now. Show some mercy. Spare me the hell of losing you by degrees. ”
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He’s brave enough to lay himself bare before me. I have to match his courage. It’s time to find the words for all the things we’ve left unsaid.
“You scared me at first,” I say hoarsely, as I curl my legs beneath me on my couch. “Not enough for me to walk away, but I kept asking myself what kind of man would get off thinking about rape. It took me so long to realize I was angry with you for wanting this because I was angry with myself for it too. Every day I thought about you, every time I closed my eyes I imagined your face, but I still didn’t see the real you. ”
Jonah looks down at me so sadly that I’m taken aback. I realize the only other time I saw Jonah like this was the day he confessed to me about his childhood, and how his twisted stepfather tried to corrupt Jonah’s mind into the mirror image of his own.
Do we always have to revisit our deepest wounds to be fully open to each other? We have to make this easier. We have to clear a path that will always connect us, with or without our rape fantasies. We must become more than that.
But why give the games up forever and ever—?
Because it’s what Jonah needs.
What about what I need?
Try. At least try. This man is worth it.
Slowly, I say, “I see you now, Jonah. I know you. And you’re so much braver and better than anyone else can ever understand. I wanted you, and then I needed you so much that . . . I didn’t even think of it as love, because love is something we feel for other people. But you’re a part of me, or I’m a part of you. That has to be true, because you’re the only one who’s ever made me feel complete. ” My voice has begun to tremble. “If that’s not love,” I say, “what is?”
Jonah sits beside, pulls me into his arms, and hugs me so tightly I can hardly breathe. I don’t care. Never have I been so fully honest, so fully myself, with anyone else.
“I love you so much,” I whisper against his cheek. “More than I knew I could love anybody. ”
He responds by taking my face in his hands. One teardrop escapes my eye and trickles down my cheek; Jonah brushes it away with his little finger, then leans in for a kiss.
Sometimes our kisses are fierce and wild. Even savage. This is pure tenderness. We sink down onto the sofa, Jonah atop me, our bodies pressed together from knees to shoulders. He slides one thigh between mine, buries his face in the curve of my neck. I kiss his eyelids, arch my body so that we lock together even more perfectly. Yet this isn’t about sex—only about being as close as we can possibly be to one another. To bring our bodies as near as our hearts.
A wish, a longing, grips me so overpoweringly that it forces another few tears from my eyes. If I could only make love with Jonah right now like other people do—without violence, without roleplayin
g, without games—and still know that I’d find it satisfying. Right now I can imagine nothing sweeter than to come in Jonah’s arms, or from the sweet pressure of his mouth between my legs.
But there’s still a boundary no one can cross, not Jonah, not even me. It’s ringed in barbed wire and flame. It will stand forever. Anthony built it and he made it strong.
Don’t think that man’s name. Don’t bring him here. Don’t give him one second of this.
And, for now, I don’t. I cast out the shadows of the past, my fears for the future. This moment is the only time there has ever been; Jonah and I, the only people. My heart has always been this full, this perfect, this whole.
Twenty
Our high school guidance counselors, our parents, and a zillion cheesy public service campaigns have all told us that we don’t need booze to have a good time. Which is totally true! While I enjoy a glass of wine, and sometimes find a few sips calming during a fraught situation, on the average day I’d just as soon have a cup of coffee. If I could have only caffeine or alcohol for the rest of my life, caffeine would win that contest hands down.
But as we get closer to midnight on December 31, I have to admit—a little bit of bubbly does a lot for a New Year’s party.
“You must loathe me,” Geordie says as we stare forlornly at our glasses of “sparkling white grape juice,” aka Satan’s champagne. “You could be enjoying a lovely Veuve Cliquot if it weren’t for me. ”
“Don’t be silly. This is fine. Better than fine, because, hey, no more hangovers. ” Not that I often drank to that point, but I don’t bother bringing that up.
Jonah walks up then and slides his arm around me, and I smile at him as he says, “Why start off a new year feeling miserable? Full of regret? Better to start fresh. ”
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“Exactly,” I agree, and even Geordie manages a grin. While he and Jonah are still very, very far from being friends, they’re finally getting past the caveman-jealousy bullshit.
As for the rest of the party—well, everybody’s doing the best they can. Carmen turned the lights down low, got a few candles going, and even figured out how to make a nonalcoholic sangria that tastes pretty good. I’m going back to it after I finish this grape juice mess. More people showed up than I would have thought, given that this evening is dry. And we have the perfect music playing, a mix of classic lounge tunes from the fifties and sixties together with contemporary neo-soul with everyone from Adele to Pink Martini.
Yet a miasma of pure awkward settled over the party after the first cheerful hour. Maybe it’s the fact that two of the principal guests brought along a very tiny infant; Nicolas is adorable to fuss over, but he also means we have to keep the music down, and Arturo continually asks us to reapply hand sanitizer anytime we get near the baby. (We all smell like artificial strawberry scent. ) Or maybe it’s the fact that a few of the guests know exactly why this event is alcohol-free, and their eyes keep raking over Geordie as if he were a grenade primed to blow at any moment. They’re better than the clueless ones, though, who always joke about having a flask at the very moment Geordie’s walking by.
Also, it’s like every single person dressed for totally different occasions. I put on a party dress—shell-pink sequins, slim straps, and a hem that falls a few inches north of the knee—which matches Jonah’s beautifully tailored suit and Carmen’s pencil skirt and glittery red top. But Geordie simply went for shirtsleeves and tie, and most people wear jeans and sweaters. Carmen’s friend Nicole wore pajamas with a plastic tiara, which is at least festive, and Arturo’s old roommate Mack came in his Longhorns jersey. I’ll excuse Shay and Arturo for going casual, because merely getting out of the house with a newborn baby is a feat. Everyone else, though—do they not even like special occasions?
I whisper as much to Jonah at one point, which makes him laugh. “Most people prefer dressing down. You didn’t strike me as the kind of girl who’s addicted to her high heels. ”
“Not even. Still, why wear the exact same thing to every single occasion? It just . . . turns the world gray. ”
Jonah shrugs. “Turns it comfortable, I’d say. ”
True enough, I guess. My mania for dressing up—that’s probably the New Orleans girl in me. And that reminds me: “Hey, what are you doing in mid-February?”
“No scheduled trips. Why?” Jonah’s eyes crinkle at the corners, not quite a smile. “Is this where you tell me I’d better put together a huge surprise for Valentine’s Day?”
“What? No. ” Jonah would hardly be the balloons-and-teddy-bear type anyway. “That’s Carnival time. Usually I try to get back to New Orleans for at least a couple of parades and one of the balls. Want to come with?”
“A Mardi Gras ball? What’s that like?”
“Only one way to find out. ” I grin as I take hold of the dark blue silk of his tie. “But I should warn you—dressing up is mandatory. ”
“I’ve got the suits. ” When I shake my head, Jonah frowns. “I’ll need a tux?”
“Even tuxedoes are too casual for a proper Mardi Gras ball. If you’re not in white tie and tails, they won’t let you through the door. ”
“It’s worth it if you’ll wear that green dress again. ”
Jonah’s seen my floor-length gown before at a charity benefit where he pretended to rape me behind the red velvet curtain of a stage. Just remembering that starts to get me wet. I whisper, “I’ll put it on if you’ll take it off. ”
The fierceness returns to Jonah’s grin. “Then we have a deal. ”
And yet this reminds me of the final reason tonight’s party isn’t working for me. I can’t stop thinking about our New Year’s resolution.
No more games. Ever.
I feel as confined by this as I did when Jonah first drew this line, with me on the other side. Yet I have to admit the situation has fundamentally changed. Before, Jonah pulled away from me because he thought it was for my own good; he saw me only as a victim, which wounded me deeply.
Now, however, Jonah’s decision is rooted in what he needs. The side of him he showed me in Chicago was dangerous, even frightening—but nothing I couldn’t accept, or even enjoy. For Jonah, however, it was unbearable. He’s not being selfish; he’s being honest about a limit he must draw for his own sanity.
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If I love this man—and I do—then somehow I have to learn how to accept this.
But I feel so cheated, so deprived, and even angry . . .
Come on. You wanted to move past the fantasy at some point. Shouldn’t you be able to have an orgasm without it? You only need to learn how, and you can’t learn without trying.
Finally I have a partner, a lover, who truly understands. Jonah will help me every step of the way. That has to make a difference. We can do this, together.
Besides, this is about Jonah. For Jonah. He met me halfway when I needed him to, stood up for me the way nobody else ever has. This man is worth working for. Worth sacrificing for. I’m in for a long dry spell—but so what? I’d cross a literal desert for this man; I can cross a metaphorical one too. It’s my turn to be the protector.
I take another sip of the grape juice and grimace. Jonah laughs softly at my face. “The sangria’s better. ”
“Definitely. ”
“Let me get you a glass. ” He kisses my forehead before he moves toward Carmen’s kitchen. I’m tempted to follow him in there and brush up against his chest; that’s what was happening when Shay introduced us to each other. A little nostalgia is always fun, particularly when it’s sexy—
But that party, in this same house, is also where Jonah first learned of my fixation on a rape fantasy. Where he approached me and dared me to live out those fantasies with him.
I don’t want to dwell on what we’ve lost—and it is a loss, no matter what we might gain later. We need to make new memories, not dwell on the old ones.
“Global warming,” says Shay, who’s suddenly at my elbow. “I figure that explains it
. ”
“Explains what?” The melting of the Arctic ice sheet? True, but not exactly lighthearted party chatter.
Shay smiles at me coyly. “How you managed to defrost the famously chilly Professor Marks. ”
“He’s not that chilly. Not when you get to know him. ” I can hardly explain Jonah’s true reasons for his silent, guarded nature, but I still feel the need to defend him.
But Shay’s not on the attack. She’d never attack anyone, with her cheerful spirit and warm heart. “I just can’t reconcile the guy I know from the earth sciences department with the one who cuddles with you at parties and kisses you good-bye before he even goes to fetch you a drink. ”
“Same guy, I promise. ” I glance over her shoulder to see Arturo sitting crisscross on the floor, Nicolas in his lap. He’s talking to his infant son, exaggerating his facial expressions, as if that will help the tiny wriggling boy in a blue sleeper understand what’s going on. “Arturo has turned out to be just the kind of dad I imagined he would be. ”
Shay nods, though she looks wistful as she stands there in her thrift-store patterned shirt and oversized jeans. “Sometimes it’s hard to shut that off, though. To stop being Nicolas’s mum and dad, and remember we’re husband and wife. ”
“When you guys are ready for a romantic night out, just let me know. I can babysit!” Honestly, the thought of caring for a newborn unnerves me. They’re so—little, and floppy, and how are you supposed to know what they want? But I’d like to have kids of my own someday, so I guess I’d better start figuring that out.
“I might take you up on that in a few weeks. ” Shay sips her ginger ale. Her eyes are bright behind her thick-rimmed glasses. “Don’t misunderstand. I love Nicolas more than I knew I could love anybody. I wouldn’t change one single thing. But I feel like—like maybe Arturo and I missed out on some time to just have fun and be in love. ”
This is where my mother’s training would have me spout platitudes about the Responsibility of Parenthood. She’d go the extra mile and make sure she forced Shay to feel guilty about admitting even the slightest drawback to being a mother—which is ironic, given that she’s never stopped complaining about how much Chloe and I needed from her. I don’t want to answer on autopilot, especially when my instincts suck.