Chapter Text
I stumble into him at 6am, half asleep, trying to get a glass of water downstairs. He’s freshly gleaming from his early morning shower, one towel slung low across his waist, another over his shoulder. Catching me in strong arms, whispering “Hey, be careful sweetheart”. For my part, I try hard not to look at the way the skin of his torso glistened, still wet, making the tattoos on his chest look like they’re moving. I’m lightheaded, my skin damp the whole walk back to my room, water glass clasped in my hand. Ten minutes later, he’s knocking at my door, gently, poking his head round with a cup of coffee for me. I figure it’s near enough morning to start my day anyway, so go downstairs to drink it in the garden. The room awash with pink, orange and gold from the early morning sunrise, my head craned behind me to see as much of the sky as I can.
⋆ ˚ ✦ ⋆
That afternoon Rhys teaches me how to play chess. A few days ago, he had found a board in a cupboard, gathering dust. Since then, he had mentioned it repeatably, in that way he does when he’s trying to be subtle about something. I hadn’t played chess since I was a kid, when Nesta got a chess board as a Christmas present and forced me to play against her until I cried. I am about as good at chess as I was then, hence me putting it off.
Rhysand is a particularly annoying person to play chess with – perhaps even worse than Nesta. We sit opposite one another on the floor, using the coffee table for the board between us. He plays black, I play white.
“I know my next move,” I say sharply as he offers yet another suggestion “I’m not that stupid.” I twist my fingers in my lap, scanning the board. I make a meaningless move with my last remaining pawn to end my go as soon as possible. Rhys gives me a very pointed look.
“I didn’t say you were stupid,” he says, slowly “It’s just not a wise move to use your Queen so often.” I lean back on the floor, steading myself with my arm. He moves his Castle across the board, then looks up at me expectantly. “It’s your go.”
To spite him I move my Queen five steps forward.
He lifts a brow. “Is it that hard for you to listen to my advice? You’ve lost every single game so far. I’m just trying to help you, you know.”
My face warms. “I’m good, thanks.”
“You’re so stubborn sometimes.”
I glare at him. I don’t think he’s talking just about the game. “Don’t you have better things to do than insult me?”
“Of course. Plenty. But none quite as enjoyable.” Rhys leans forward, moving his Knight – right into the perfect position to take my Queen.
“You’re a real bastard, you know that?” I mutter.
Rhys huffs a laugh. “I’ve been called worse. In fact, I think you’ve called me worse, in this very game already” He taps the board in front of him. “It’s your move, go on. Do it without my help if you’re so sure of yourself.”
A blur of pieces in front of me. My throat tightens. I hesitate my hand over my Bishop and see him in the corner of my eye jerk his head a sharp no. It’s like he can’t stop himself. “What’s the point in playing if you keep looking at me like that every time I make a move you disagree with?!” I burst out.
“Not my fault you keep making such bad moves”
I close my eyes to block out his stupid face. “Be quiet” I mutter, and for some reason he obeys.
I have only a few pieces left – my Queen, my Bishop, my King and one Pawn. Compared to Rhys, who’s side still looks like an army … I’m not doing well. I frown - eyes still closed – thinking. An idea comes to me. It’s risky, but I know Rhys will fall for it. If I move my Bishop as a decoy into the path of his queen, he’ll take it without thinking. He’s too proud and overconfident, and my inexperience will play in my favour. Then, I can take his Queen with mine, which will at the very least will even the playing field.
I open my eyes, and make my move, poker faced. Rhys does exactly as I expected, a little smirk on his lips at the fool he considers me to be. I look up at him, innocent as can be - and knock over his Queen. I feel a fantastic rise of triumph as he looks genuinely dumbstruck. He recovers quickly – replacing his surprised expression with one of cool indifference, reanalysing the board and me.
“Very good Feyre.” He says, and his eyes meet mine “In- fact, that move was almost as good – as this one” he declares, knocking over my Queen with his pawn of all things.
“Fuck you”
“Language. If only you had taken my advice, maybe you would still have your queen hm?”
“Yes yes, you’re the best chess player in Scotland” I mutter rolling my eyes and making another pointless move with my pawn to recover from the devastation of losing the only piece I actually remember how to use. Rhys is busy gloating, not even watching my move.
“Why not the whole of Europe, Sweetheart?”
“Because we’re in Scotland right now”
“No, we’re not” He stops looking at his fingernails to frown at me, like he really is confused at where I got that idea from.
“Yes, we clearly are Rhys.”
He shakes his head and readjusts himself back to the chessboard “Be quiet. You’re trying to distract me. You can’t – I’m far too good at this game.”
Irritatingly, he goes on to prove this right by getting me in checkmate within two moves. I turn away and groan, watching in the corner of my eye the glee with which he sets up another game.
⋆ ˚ ✦ ⋆
From the last conversation we had, yesterday evening, I think that it actually won’t take much to move Rhys on the principle of letting me out anymore. Despite his secrecy and hesitation, all he talked about over dinner was my “choice”. That leaving early would be a bad one, yes, but he wouldn’t be able to stop me. I immediately wanted to jump at it, to suggest that we leave that very night – when he caught me with a stern glance.
“If you leave, my contract has to terminate early. You can go, but I won’t be able to protect you.” He said, holding his hand out for my empty plate. “Your choice sweetheart. Don’t be foolish now.”
I regretfully came to see his side in the conversation, when he laid out exactly how serious the threat of danger was for me back home. The more he spoke, the clearer it is how much I need his protection; how sensible my father was for setting this up.
But the thought of staying here, waiting, is just …
It’s a real rock and a hard place sort of situation. Seducing him seems more and more like the only solution I have regarding keeping both my protection and gaining my freedom.
If I can just get him to consider the option – to taunt and tease him until he’s desperate, begging for me - Then, once he’s on his knees, I’ll look him in the eyes and tell him that I’ll only fuck him if he agrees to my demands. Even better would be if I can get him so desperate that I don’t even need to go into details for my side of the bargain, he’ll just do whatever I ask of him.
The idea is good, I feel.
The only real problem is that I’ve never actually pursued someone.
With Issac, my first, there was no real “seduction”. I was in my late teens, at a party where we spotted each other across the room. I had sat next to Issac in maths for one year at school but hadn’t really thought of him much. But in the few months of summer, he had grown from a boy into a man – and a rather handsome one at that. Brown shaggy hair, softly spoken, with a girlfriend who went to another school. It didn’t matter much to me then, or to him. She continued not to matter for the next year, never crossing our thoughts in our many stolen, fumbling moments. It wasn’t my proudest decision.
Tamlin was an entirely different thing altogether.
I was in my final year at art school and had put together a group show with some friends at a small gallery. It was nothing flash, just a small affair – but God did we feel smug. Being this early in our career with a group show under our belts? "Promising" was what my tutors called me - promising. If you can believe it. There’s this narcissistic joy in a private view, where you watch the friends and family of others peruse the artworks, hiding just out of view to overhear comments. Art is such a solo act, so rarely do you get comments which are not critiques. So rarely are you seen.
My work was five small oil paintings of my sisters’ hands. Two of Nesta’s (reading, working at a laptop), two of Elain (gardening, fidgeting), and then of the two of them together cooking dinner. Light reflecting on their knuckles, palms, fingers, wrists, pale and freckled, just like mine. It was the most sentimental set I had ever made. I had spent hours on it in my little flat. Half three in the morning, hunched over the desk, the photograph Nesta had sent me as reference enlarged on my phone. Us three had never been good at talking, at telling each other that we meant anything to each other. We were better at doing. Practical girls - That’s what I called the set.
I had hung out nearby, waiting for a bit of offhand praise – a girl has to take what she can get – when I noticed that the man who had been looking at them hadn’t moved for a good ten minutes. He was just staring at the work. And he was gorgeous. Blonde hair tied back in a simple braid, green sweater that looked like cashmere, strong striking features. Staring at my work, like it meant something.
I sidled up to him and asked him what he thought of the piece – not telling him I was the artist of course. He tilted his head and said it looked lonely. It was the most accurate response I had heard all day.
That night he traced my hands with his and said he could see the resemblance. It was sweet at the time, but it was probably just some line that would get me to open my legs. Worked a charm I suppose if that was his intention.
Issac and I were just two kids, figuring out morality together in the dark. With Tamlin, I was prey.
In-between the two of them were a few one-night stands, where I never once was the initiator. If you can even call them one-night stands, that is. What do you call it when you’re just fumbling, when you don’t go all the way? Kissing on the bus because a hotel was too expensive. His hand grazing the outside of my underwear but being interrupted by a housemate and never picking up where we left off. I like to think it sort of counts, or I’m just at a body count of two. And that makes me feel even worse, comparing myself to Rhys – a man who no doubt has had his pick of women his entire life. He must have, looking like that. I’m surprised there’s not a trail of ex-lovers outside our door, wanting him back.
I formulate my seduction strategies in bed most nights. Most of my plans involve wearing less and less clothing and putting myself in increasingly sexual positions – bending over to pick things up in front of him, finding excuses to touch him as I go past. It sounds ridiculous even in my mind. I run through the day just gone, wondering when I could have said something flirty. When he passed me dinner, should I have said something cheesy like - I’d rather have him instead, laid out like my own personal feast? Would he go for something like that? Or should I be more sophisticated, drape my legs over his lap while we watch tv, wait for him to pick up the clues?
I feel woefully inexperienced.
I simply do not know how to do this.
⋆ ˚ ✦ ⋆
One evening, he leaves one of his jumpers on the couch. I hide it under a cushion, knowing if he saw it, he’d tidy it up immediately. By complete luck – it’s the white one I wore on my first day here. He rarely wears it, as he’s almost always in black. It's perfect. I have some strange feeling that my vulnerability will give me the edge - reminding him I’m nothing but a damsel in distress, injured and wrapped up in his clothes? He'll fold immediately. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.
The next morning, I slip it on, and I’m instantly surrounded by the scent of his aftershave. Citrus and sea-salt, right to the back of my nose. I spin around in the mirror, trying to assess how risqué it is. The hem reaches just above my ass, leaving a tasteful amount of cheek if I do say so myself. Nothing too much, just enough to tease. I can see the still purple bruise of my injured leg a little too well – but it’s better than before. At least I can walk on it now, with only a small stab of pain. I wear nothing else except underwear underneath.
It’s now or never – I think as I walk downstairs.
Rhys doesn’t look up as I enter the living room to fix myself a cup of tea. Head buried in a paperback again.
“What are you reading?” I try and sounds sultry, leaning on the counter and angling my body towards him, legs on show. It just sounds like I have a cold.
“Ah, it’s about folk-law actually. It’s quite interesting, I can try to translate it for you.” Rhys looks up at this, eyes traveling over my bare legs, then losing interest and returning to the book. “Warm, Feyre?”
“Yes, it’s getting a bit hot in here” my face is flushed and practically run into the kitchen to hide myself. I open the cupboard door to separate myself from him.
“I’ll turn the heating down.” He calls from the sofa.
I nod, forgetting he can’t see me behind the cupboard door, and even if he could, he probably wouldn’t notice anyway. I try not to be discouraged, and, after a few deep breaths, close the door and stir some hot water into a mug with a teabag. Extra sugar for me. I make one for Rhys as well, sans sugar.
I carry them over, trying hard to reduce the tremor in my hands, and place them on the coffee table. Rhys thanks me without looking up, even though I tried bending over seductively as I placed them. Another strike. I'm getting no where. I sit myself down next to him, legs curled underneath me.
Then - I nudge myself closer. He flips a page and takes a sip of the tea, oblivious.
I scoot even closer, until we’re touching – my knee next to his thighs. I fiddle with the cuff of the jumper, pulling apart a loose thread near the end of the ribbing. He still seems completely uninterested.
I finally get the courage to place a hand on his knee. Delicately. He stills at my touch.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Sorry” I snatch my hand away.
“Okay.” He says, not unkindly. He gives me a confused look, then goes back to ignoring me. I pull at the strings of his jumper some more, and he glances my way, tutting under his breath. I place my hands underneath my legs to stop fidgeting, and scan the room for a book of my own to ignore him with.
I spot one on the side and sit back down to sit in silence next to him.
It’s only when he taps my shoulder, passing me another cup of tea that I realise it’s getting darker out, and we’ve been ignoring each other the whole day.
“Good book?” his voice is gentle, as he retakes his place next to me. I nod, my own voice escaping me.
“Do you want to tell me what this morning was about? Or should we forget about it?” his voice is gentler still, as my cheeks go an even brighter red. I shake my head, and look back at my book, re-reading the same line over and over.
As we clean the kitchen after dinner, I feel like he is looking over at me, at my bare legs, but every time I try to meet his eyes, he’s scrubbing the counter like I’m not even in the room. I consider, as I clean the pan of tagliatelle sauce, that maybe I’ve done enough damage for today.
The next day, the house is indeed colder, forcing me to wear more clothes. For a second, I think Rhys looks disappointed at my clothed legs, but a blink later his face is cold neutrality. The firm tight smile that he wears when something else is on his mind.
He leaves to go fishing, telling me to variations on “be good” for a whole twenty minutes before. Clucking like a mother hen again. I work on a painting of an overgrown bat, from a textbook I had found in the library called “great animals of Illyria, big and small”.
⋆ ˚ ✦ ⋆
A few hours he comes back in, while I’m sat downstairs, tea in hand, dissociating.
“Hey Kid,” Rhys says, jolting me back to the land of the living, scuffing my hair, his own is still slightly wet from outside.
“Hey yourself,” I say back, still disorientated, looking up at him from the couch. “How was fishing?”
“Yeah, good. I got real lucky.” He says, walking back to the kitchen. I turn around and rest my head across the back of the sofa, watching him. He looks good. He always looks good these days. Maybe he looked good before, but I was too caught up in being pissed off at him that I didn't focus on it as much as I do now. It irritates me, my awareness of him, but I push that irritation down.
His violet-blue eyes meet mine, softening. “How are you, my love?”
The sweetness of his voice takes me by surprise, interrupts my moody little internal dialogue. I make some non-comitial response, running the sound of him saying “my love” repeatedly in my mind, while he unpacks his fishing bag.
Aside from the seduction, which so far has been nothing except stolen glances and the disgrace of trying to touch him the other day, the only other thing on my mind has been my father. I had run through what Rhys had said almost nightly since he told me. I was having a lot of trouble marrying up the two versions of my father in my mind. The dying grey haired old man lying in the hospital bed and the hardened crime lord. The overlapping Venn diagram made so little sense.
“Rhys?” I call. He’s turned away, the sink running loud. The skin of the fish sparkling under the water.
“Hm?” comes his response, flicking his eyes over at me.
“I’ve been thinking…” I start
“Careful now, don’t hurt yourself”
I roll my eyes at his response, and he grins. What a fucking Dad joke. I try again, more seriously this time. “I’ve been thinking about my father.”
“Ah.” Rhys says. He turns off the tap. There’s a silence in the room – an uncomfortable one.
“Well. I just wanted to know if you could tell me more about what sort of things he’s involved in.” I watch Rhys pull out a cutting board from the side, placing the freshly cleaned basket of fish next to it.
“I think it’s one of those things where the less you know the better.” He pauses, opening the top drawer, and then another, frowning. I think he’s looking for the knife, which he was sharpening last night. I can see it on the side near the sink, sparkling, but decide not to tell him. The things I do to keep myself entertained here. He turns around scanning the room, speaking off hand to me “I mean, I’m not really the best person to ask anyway.”
“You’re the only person I can ask.”
“Feyre.” He chides, hand on his hips, brow furrowed in confusion. The knife is just to the left of where he’s looking.
“What? It’s my father’s money - technically it’s my money. I have a right to know about it”
“I’m not going to argue with you. I’m not in the mood”
“When are you ever?”
“Ah-ah” he tuts, spotting the knife finally. He walks over and grabs it in one hand; lips curled in a triumphant grin directed at me. I don’t return it. He flicks the knife with his hand, slicing up the first fish with ease “You’re trying to rile me up. It’s not going to work, my darling.”
“I just want to know where the money comes from” I grumble.
He gives me this strange half smile, one that’s all false. “No, you don’t”
“Rhys –“
“I know that tone. Stop trying to bait me.” He snaps, then takes a breath, giving me an apologetic look and beckons with his other hand. “Come here, I want to show you how to gut a fish”
“I’m not in the mood” I echo him, glaring.
“Don’t be like that, you love this sort of thing.” I raise my chin at him in defiance. He scans my features, and I flinch a little bit with how long he holds my gaze. He shakes his head and sighs. “Ok. Go be in your mood then.”
I forgive him by the afternoon, draping my legs over his lap while we both sit in the greenhouse. I can feel his body heat through the rough spun fabric of his trousers. He’s debating through different options for dinner tonight. I don’t really need to say much, he kind of ends up answering himself anyway whenever he poses a question to me. I can lean my head back on the edge of the bench, look up to what I can see of the sky, and half ignore him. It’s never like we talk about anything important anyway.
Then something strange happens.
While he’s talking, I feel the back of his hand brush across my leg. I almost don’t notice it at first. He’s so gentle - like he’s trying not to frighten me. Running his knuckles across my uninjured calf, like the gesture is just a casual touch, one that doesn’t mean anything. I find I’m not concentrating at all on what he’s saying anymore. In their path across my leg, his fingers hike up the skirt I’m wearing so it rests above my knee. I shudder slightly, as his fingers brush my skin. I haven’t been touched by anyone there in a long time. Rhys stop speaking about whatever it was he was talking about and glances at me. I avoid his gaze., staring straight up at the white beams of the ceiling, and the sky above.
“You ok?” he asks, low and soft, an entirely different tone to his normal voice. I just nod, like it’s nothing. I’m worried that if I try and talk, I won’t be able to. The words will get stuck in my throat. When did I get like this? His finger traces the scar just above my knee. “What’s this from?”
“Oh. It’s nothing.” Somehow, I can feel the disbelief on his expression without even looking. “It’s a long story.” I say.
He shrugs. “I’m not doing anything am I?”
“I suppose not” I shuffle a bit so I’m more comfortable, lying down properly on the bench. His fingers continue their soft exploration, while I elaborate. “When we were younger, my sisters and I were – well we didn’t have much. Our mum was out all evening sometimes, and we barely had enough to cover rent. I worked two jobs during high school, and it still wasn’t enough. Anyway. That’s beside the point. I was out, one time, trying to –“ I glance at him, trying to assess if I should continue or not. He looks at me with that inscrutable mask, hand still on my leg. I think that it doesn’t matter what I say anyway. “Well, I was trying to steal some food. The back window of the Co-op had gotten smashed by some kids the week before, so I thought it would be easy enough to sneak in. I caught my leg on the glass, and yeah. Had to go to hospital and everything. There was so much blood. My sisters wouldn’t let me live it down for weeks, calling me a raccoon, even though I was just trying to help. Pretty pathetic story.”
Rhys doesn’t say anything for a while. I can’t believe I’ve told him something as embarrassing as that. I want the ground to swallow me, the scent of poverty on me so strong for a second. Then, he swipes his thumb over the scar, like he’s trying to heal it with just his touch. “You had it rough huh,” he mutters.
“Don’t most kids?” I deflect. I don’t know why I’m aggressive about it, but he doesn’t remark on my tone.
“I guess so.” Rhys says, resuming his stroking. His hand is so warm. He raises one perfect eyebrow at me “You want to see something gnarly?”
I sit slightly, and he turns over his arm, rolling up his sleeve and displaying his slightly paler inner forearm for my inspection. There, near his elbow is a long cut.
“Christ that’s deep.” I mutter. It looked – like it hurt. Like whatever happened had been very bad. I wonder how I never noticed it before. I glance up at him, questioning, and he nods, moving his arm closer to me. I trace the line with my fingers.
“Nasty, huh?” he says.
“What happened?”
“More like…who.”
“Someone else did that to you?” I look up at him again, with surprise.
“You weren’t the only one to have it rough.” He says it offhand, his face a calm, unflinching mask.
“I’m sorry”
“Hm,” he turns away, as if he’s lost interest in the conversation, looking out at the garden. He leaves his arm out, resting it on top of my legs, his hand on my lap. It’s hard to concentrate, with his fingers so close … to certain things.
“You can ask about the tattoos. I’ve seen you looking” Rhys says. The profile of his face is particularly striking in the soft afternoon light.
I start to apologise, but he just smiles, good natured. “Do they mean anything?” I say instead. I hadn’t realised, but my hand is still on the underside of his elbow, my fingers moving absent mildly over his tanned skin. I think about moving it, but I don’t. Instead, I do the opposite - and run my fingers across his skin like he did with mine. It feels nice.
“Yeah, kind of. It’s like…” he frowns, like he’s trying to think of how to phrase it “Well it’s actually rather stupid - so don’t laugh”
“I won’t” I make a little action of crossing my fingers over, which he glances at with a soft smile. I return my hand to his arm, and he rolls his sleeve up even further for me. I feel something strange curl in my stomach. A small tendril of something.
“It’s this family tradition I have with my brothers. When Cassian was 15, and I was - God, I don’t know, too young anyway - he learnt how to do a stick and poke tattoo. You know, ink and a needle” A glittering light appears in his eyes. “He wanted a Genea pig and said he would bargain his collection of comic books with me if I let him.”
“You didn’t do it, right?” I grin - I can’t imagine him doing anything that risky.
He laughs “They were very rare comics Feyre. Surely you understand.”
“Did you … get an infection?”
“Maybe.” He answers cryptically “Anyway, we started marking any bargains we made with tattoos. The three of us, I mean. And then, when we got older, I went to go and get them covered up as another bargain, and those two did it too. And then we kept making stupid bargains and kept getting tattoos. That’s how so many happened. Peer pressure.” He looks down at his arms and directs me to a point just to the left of the scar. “If you look here – you can see a bit of Cassian’s handiwork. He said it was supposed to be a bat.”
“That’s weirdly sweet” I trace what’s left of the wing, faded and terribly drawn.
Rhys chuckles softly “Yeah, I guess so. I’m just littered with half-broken promises now.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Cassian’s did. But the later ones, nah, not that much. Do you not have any?” I shake my head. He makes a gesture for me to give him my arm. With his other hand he runs his fingernail down the side it, scratching it, hard. I made a little noise, surprised by the sting. He smiles and says “It feels kind of like that. Like wet fire.”
“Not so bad.” I say, looking at the thin white line on my skin where his fingernail had been. I tuck Cassian’s name into a little folder in the back of my mind, labelled facts-I-know-about-Rhys. I wonder what sort of boy he was – what sort of person Rhys would trust with India ink and a sewing needle in exchange for comic books. What sort of man he is now. If they’re close. All the questions rush to the front of my mind, but I keep them quiet. Instead, the question that comes out my mouth is a stupid one.
“Do they – go everywhere?”
There’s a wicked glint in Rhy’s eyes when he winks at me.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I’ve never heard him speak in that tone. It does something weird to my stomach, making me feel all anxious and hot. I feel my face go red, blushing straight to the tips of my ears. He turns his hand back over, and places it firmly on my inner thigh, as if it’s natural place. My entire focus narrows onto where his hands is on me. The heat of his palm, the gentle movement of his fingers. It’s like I’ve never been touched before.
This is ridiculous.
For his part, Rhys is behaving as if this is completely normal. Like yesterday, when I tried to touch him, never even happened. His thumb massages my skin, fingers drumming a little beat.
All I can think about is how much I want his hand to be higher. To be closer.
Without realising, I start to shuffle my way to him.
“What are you doing?” He says once I’ve unsuccessfully jerked his hand enough times.
“Just trying to get comfortable” I mutter. I hope that he doesn’t notice the tremor in my voice.
“Really” he raises his eyebrows, his voice completely calm “Are you more comfortable now?”
“Almost” I try again and manage to jog his hand a bit higher with my movements, and he glances down, a cruel little smirk forming on his lips. He tilts his head at me in a question, then moves his hand underneath my skirt, to the top of my leg. I stop moving completely.
“Is that what you wanted?” His voice is soft and sultry. All I can do is just… nod. He sighs, and says “Use your words next time darling"
Then he surprises me further, by pushing my skirt all the way up, exposing my thighs to the sticky heat of the greenhouse, the edge of my underwear visible. His eyes stay on mine, and he moves his hand higher up my legs, exploring. I think I forget to breath. It feels so good, like I’m on fire underneath his hands.
"How’s this? Is that better?” Rhys croons. If he just flicked his finger across, he’d be touching me right where I want him to. When I only nod in response to his question, he tuts - “What did I just say Feyre?”
“Yes.” I get out. My voice sounds unnatural. I almost add another word afterward, instinctively, but bite my tongue to stop it.
“Strange girl” He chides, squeezing the skin, running his fingers over the edge of the lace of my underwear. It doesn’t go any further than that though, as he returns to talking about dinner plans.
His hand stays right where it is. I stay completely still underneath.
He decides we should go for pasta.
That evening, after we’ve eaten, and I’m in bed upstairs, my thoughts wander. All I can think about is his hand on my leg, the way it felt … possessive almost. The way he spoke to me, just a little mean. I tell myself I’m just thinking about it because of the trade, which will help me get outside. Even as my own hands drift lower, reaching into my underwear, imagining that the fingers that swipe against myself are rough and calloused. It’s just for the trade. The image of him appears without my permission.
I jolt upright. Take a few deep breaths.
It’s just my body reacting. It means absolutely nothing.
I move my hands away, place them Infront of me, and then trap them underneath my legs. I’m not allowing myself to actually masturbate at the thought of him.
That would be a stupid idea.
I lie back down and close my eyes, tossing and turning the rest of night.