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“Of course.” I can hear his wry smile. “Way more outlandish stuff, too.”
“Milkmaid role-play?”
“Wilder.”
“It’s furries, isn’t it?”
“You wish.”
“You have to tell me, or I’ll picture necrophilia and dismemberment.”
“In my weird fantasies, Elsie...” He shifts me till our curves and angles match up. Perfectly. “In my fantasies, you allow me to keep an eye on you.” I feel his lips at my temple. “And when I really let go, I imagine that you let me take care of you, too.”
It does sound outlandish. “Why?”
“Because in my head, no one has done it before.”
I fall asleep huddled in the curve of Jack’s throat, wondering whether he might be right.
15
HEAT TRANSFER
There are no curtains, and I wake up first.
The morning light is blinding white, as painful as a million naked mole rats gnawing at my eyeballs. Judging from the slow, rhythmic breath chuffing against the back of my neck, it’s something Jack has gotten used to.
I feel rested. Warm and cozy. At some point in the night I must have turned around in his arms, because my back is pressed against his chest. His hand is under my shirt, splayed flat against my belly, fingers brushing my pod, but not in a creepy, sexual way. He’s just trying to keep me close so that we both fit under the thin blanket. It should feel like being spooned by a piranha, but it somehow works, and...
Maybe itisa bit sexual. Because there’s somethingveryhot, very,veryhard, very, very,verybig pressing against my ass.
Jack probably needs to pee. Don’t men get hard in the morningswhen they need to go to the bathroom? It’s a pee erection. A peerection. Yup.
Still, I should leave.
I try to slip out from under Jack’s massive biceps, but he resists in his sleep. My heart races when he hums something into my nape, fingers gripping my hip. That hardthingpushes into me, trying to nestle farther between the cheeks of my ass, and I gasp.
“You smell so good,” he growls into my skin, and all of a sudden I’m glowing with heat and embarrassment and something else, something new and pulsating and unfamiliar. I squirm around the feeling. Oh God. Is this—am Iturned on? He’s barely awake, and I bet he thinks I’m his pillow girlfriend or whoever he slept with last, and I’m here, all hot and—
“Elsie,” he nearly grunts. His arm tightens around my waist, then abruptly relaxes.
He’s still fast asleep. And this time, when I wiggle away, he lets me go. I’m running upstairs, flushing cherry red, and he’s once again breathing evenly.
It’s okay. It’s fine. Kind of creepy that I’m even thinking about this, since he’s asleep. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth (yup, with my finger), wash my face, and reassure Cece that I haven’t been sex trafficked.
My inbox is bloated with emails. The highlight:
From: [email protected]
Subject: Melanie
Melanie is a good person and did not mean to copy that essay from the internet, she told me so, and I believe her because I raised her and in my household we do notcondone lies. She was framed (her roommate has a vendetta against her, ever since the menstrual cup incident). Please let my daughter resubmit her assignment.
Melanie’s mom
I sigh, twice, then stress-snoop in Jack’s cabinets. Finding some Rogaine or antifungal meds or prescription-strength deodorant would humanize him, but there’s only toothpaste (wintergreen—disgusting) and soap. So I sit back on the edge of the tub and spend an unspecified length of time thinking of a way to let Dr. L. know that I failed.
I failedhim.
