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"What?" he asks.
"Promise you won't fight me about leaving in three weeks. Even if you want to," I say. "Promise you won't take it personally. Because I… I think I might fall in love with you. And if you ask me to stay, I will. But I can't."
"You're not going that far."
"Just promise. Please."
He nods. "I promise."
Relief floods my body. I know he can't promise that he won't take it personally. No one can control how they feel. But I know he'll honor my request too.
I don't have to face his disappointment.
Even if I cause it.
I take a deep breath, and I shift back to sex. "So. What's the weirdest thing you've tried in the name of love?"
Chapter Thirty-Five
Daphne
"I'm not sure I've tried anything in the name of love." Jackson rests his back against the lounge chair. He spreads his legs enough to make space for me then he pulls me between his thighs.
I sink into his body, my back against his chest, my head in the crook of his neck. Like this, I'm at his mercy. He can strip me or touch me or move me exactly as he wants.
And that's what I want.
Less talk.
More touching.
A release from the thoughts circling through my head. I feel better, I do. But I'll feel a million times better with him inside me.
We're still playing this game of who breaks first.
I'm willing to lose. More than willing.
But first, I want to play. Because this is the best way out of my head and into the moment.
Maybe he's right. Maybe we need rules to release freely. Maybe that's why people who practice BDSM or polyamory are more satisfied with their sex lives. Because they're the ones who stop to outline their expectations. Who actually ask themselves what do I want, how do I want it, when do I want it?
So many people never ask or answer. They assume they—and everyone else—want the things they've seen in movies or read in books.
But that isn't reality. Reality is messy. That's what makes it beautiful.
This is a game.
I know the rules.
I can release my expectations of anything else.
We tease each other until one of us gives in.
"I've done a lot in the name of commitment and fairness," he says. "But never in the name of love." He brings one hand to the waist of my denim skirt. He runs his fingers over the rough fabric.
It feels good. Good enough, I'm almost willing to sacrifice victory. But like Grandpa says, "Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades."
Now that's an unsexy thought. My grandparents. It's what I need to win. But I'm not committed enough to victory for that.
