“It’s my attitude,” she said. “Apparently.”
“Right, then. We’ll tackle that one first. Appearance.”
“I can’t wait.” She had her arms crossed over her chest. “What? Implants? You weigh me once a week and adjust my portion sizes if I slip up? What?”
I was getting narky again myself. “I’ve never said I didn’t love the way you looked. I’ve never thought it. Thought just the opposite, haven’t I. That’s the point.”
“But it’s still on your list. Why?”
“Because,” I muttered, “I was looking at your hair.”
“My hair.” She was staring at me again, and I felt foolish.
“Yeh. I don’t want it to be short. And I don’t want you to have implants.”
“Do you get to say that? What if I…” She waved a hand. “Have to have chemotherapy or something, and my hair falls out? What if I have a mastectomy? Is it all over?”
“No. It’s never over. I’m never leaving you. And if anything like that happened? You have to know I’d be there. But let’s turn it around. What if I grow a beard? One of those unkempt caveman ones, eh.”
“No,” she said instantly. I lifted my eyebrows at her, and she offered a reluctant smile in return.
“So no beard,” she said. “Put that down. And how long do I agree to keep my hair?”
“Long enough,” I said, “that I can hold you by it.”
Her lips parted, her eyes widened, and the surge of heat went straight to my groin. I said, “And as for that other thing? Other men? No. No dinners, and I’m not rapt about lunches, either, but I’ll let the occasional lunch slide, as long as it’s a work thing and you tell me about it.”
“And a glass of wine after work,” she said, “if I want to talk to Nathan, or anything like that.”
I scowled. “I hate it.”
“I know you do.” She’d scooted closer on the couch, and now, she came to stand in front of me, blocking my view of my laptop screen, but I wasn’t going to be objecting. “How about,” she said, sinking down so she was kneeling over me, propping herself up with her hands flat against my chest, “if I promise I’ll never kiss another man? You could promise me that, too, about other women, I mean. That would make me very, very happy. And how about…” I could actually see her pupils dilating, swallowing up the sea-blue of her irises. “How about if we agree that you get to do whatever you want to me on those nights to remind me that I’m yours?” Even as I watched, the color rose to stain her cheeks, and she hurried on to say, “I’m just anticipating you on the ‘Sex’ part. Subject to my veto power, of course.”
“You’re saying,” I said, “that you get to make me jealous, so I’ll lose control.”
“No.” She had her hands around my head and was dropping little butterfly kisses around my mouth now, and not touching her was getting harder every moment. “I know you won’t lose control, not all the way. I know I can say no, and that you won’t hurt me. I want to be free to have friends, to live my life, but maybe I want you to…remind me. I love it when you’re fierce, and I want it. That’s what I’ll agree to. And now tell me why you put ‘Sex’ on your list. And then…” She pulled back and looked into my eyes. “Maybe you could start doing some of that reminding. Because I need it.”
Hope
I knew how deep Hemi’s possessive streak ran. That’s why I’d brought this up: because it was important. Now that I had, though, and as restrained as he’d been about it, I expected him to jump me, to turn the tables on me fast and hard.
But then, Hemi almost never did what I expected him to.
He sat under me, not touching me, and I couldn’t even tell if what I’d said had affected him, beyond the obvious physical reaction. He hadn’t seemed like it had. He’d been as still as always, as firmly under control.
As we’d talked, I’d begun to believe that he’d meant everything he’d said, that he really was going to be mine forever, and that we could negotiate anything that came up. We’d been through so much together. How much tougher could it get?
Showed what I knew.
“Well?” I prompted when he still didn’t move. I was beginning to feel foolish, and too vulnerable, too, sitting on top of him and getting nothing back. Did he even want me here? Was he so angry about this enforced negotiation that he wasn’t going to touch me?
His hands stayed at his sides as he said, “This isn’t a position you should put yourself in for negotiations.”
I groped for an answer and couldn’t find one. This had been wrong. I’d been supposed to stay businesslike. I’d meant to stay businesslike. But I’d needed to touch Hemi. And now, I needed him to touch me. To hold me. And maybe more. No, definitely more.
He didn’t do it. Instead, he said, “But then, we already talked about this, didn’t we? We don’t need to negotiate this, because we both know the rules. You have your safe word, and you know you can use it. I’m driving, and you’re drawing the line, though I have to say—you seem to get confused about that. You’re doing it now, in fact.”
“Mm,” I said, starting to feel a little more confident. “If you hate it, I guess we’d better negotiate that.” I had my hands in his hair now, even though it was too ruthlessly short for me to get a good hold. So I bit down on his earlobe instead and whispered into his ear, “Tell me what you want.”
He sighed. “I’ve got no choice, have I? Not when you keep taking the reins. Stand up and take those tights off, sweetheart.”
I needed this, and I kept teasing anyway. “Why?”
“Hope.” Nothing but danger in his dark eyes, in his low voice. “I’m done negotiating. Stand up, take them off, and give them to me.”
I looked into his eyes, then pushed myself off of him. He could have helped me get to my feet, but he didn’t. He just watched while I got both hands under my skirt, shimmied the black tights down my legs, and dropped them in his lap.
“Good,” he said. “Now walk to the end of the coffee table and lie down on it. On your stomach.”
“Hemi…” I began.
“No,” he said. “No talking. That’s over. Do it.”
I swallowed. I wasn’t afraid of him, and the dark thrill was running through me all the same. Danger blended with excitement, the leaping sparks jabbing at me with an electric impact that set up an answering throb that begged to be satisfied. I was burning already, and he still hadn’t even touched me.
I looked at him again, and then I did it: got off his lap, walked to the end of the table, and lowered myself onto cold black lacquer, turning my head so I could see him.
“Hold onto the legs,” he said.
There wasn’t a bit of softness in his face, and the hard shivers were running through me, the table’s surface unforgiving and cold under my cheek as I slowly reached out and obeyed. I wrapped a hand around each of the black-lacquered legs, held on, and waited.