Chapter 13 #2
He pulled the rope through the bit, and I felt him working on a knot at the center of my back. The previous floaty feeling threatened to return, a wave of subtle pleasure washing over me.
“It might’ve been difficult to minor in English Literature without the ability to read,” Wes said softly.
Surprise and curiosity bloomed inside me. “Where?” My skin flushed at the breathy sound of my voice.
Wes’s steady movements faltered for the briefest blip. “Columbia,” he said. He pulled at the knot at my back. “Breathe deeply.”
I followed his command, feeling the slightest of restriction from the placement of the rope. For whatever reason, this only increased the burgeoning hyperawareness of everywhere Wes touched.
“Is that comfortable? Let me know if anything is ever too tight.”
“It’s… good,” I said. I cleared my throat. The mental image of Wes—with his buzz cut and neck tattoos and finely sculpted muscles—reading classic literature in one of Columbia’s libraries was a compelling vision. “What was your major?”
“Business.” He said it almost like a sigh, as if it wasn’t something he was proud of.
“And your business is furniture?” I asked, remembering the interaction he had with the waitress at the diner.
“I’ve done a lot of different things,” he said vaguely. “Woodworking is one of my current passion projects. I like doing things with my hands.”
I swallowed, aware of exactly where his hands were on my body.
“Another of my passions is data and tech privacy. I’ve been in that space for several years now.”
How Wes spoke of his work was confusing. He’d already admitted The Circle saw him as a source of funding, which meant his so-called passion projects clearly made him money. Or he already had money. But how would they know that? He hadn’t even given them his last name.
I thought of the mysterious PicWave ads. Unless… The Circle already knew everything about us without us having to tell them anything. A feeling of dread sank low in my guts. After all, @O had messaged me after orientation, and I never gave them my social media handle.
Why the hell had I never pondered that before? In my defense, there had been a staggering amount of information to ponder since I’d stepped foot in this place.
Roman’s words from earlier came back to haunt me. Be careful who you trust. Not everyone is who they seem.
“I’m guessing the flip phone has something to do with that passion,” I said to Wes, hungry for more information about him. The scales had become vastly imbalanced; he knew way more about me than I knew about him.
The same as The Circle.
“Yes,” Wes said. His lips were close to my ear as he looped the rope around me again, this time going above my breasts.
I looked down at the effect it had created and swallowed hard at the way my breasts now bulged between the two loops of rope, accentuating their fullness.
Fuck me. I went utterly still. My nipples were, in fact, visibly hard beneath the burgundy satin.
“What technology is doing to people’s brains and social lives is certainly alarming, but if the public truly understood who they’ve sold their souls to with each blind acceptance of a user agreement… we’d all have flip phones.”
Okay, so Wes enjoyed wearing a tinfoil hat on occasion as well. It was good for men to have hobbies.
“Riiight,” I said. “Well, I try not to think about what our draconian overlords are doing with my internet searches. I know you’re probably right…”
“I am right.”
Wes made another pass around my breasts. I prayed he didn’t notice the nipple situation.
“…but some of us rely on the evils of technology to make a living,” I said. Or, at least, attempted to make a living, I amended for myself.
“I know,” Wes said gently. “It’s not an individual issue; it’s a collective one. We’re all trapped in their web, one way or another.”
Something about his tone shifted on the last words, but I couldn’t focus on that, because now, Wes’s hand was close to my neck. He brought the rope over my shoulder, moving to face me.
I couldn’t breathe, and it had nothing to do with the rope and everything to do with Wes’s view of my breasts in bondage.
His eyes darkened, and I forgot everything we’d been talking about. It looked like he had too. But after two long seconds, Wes’s sharp gaze was back on his work. His jaw was tense, his eyes a beautiful storm.
“You make a living from writing?” he asked.
There was a shift in his voice, barely perceptible, like he was holding his breath.
He brought the rope diagonally down my chest, running it under the bottom loop of rope.
His knuckle brushed my right breast, and I felt a surge of pleasure between my thighs.
“I scrape by,” I managed to answer, but my voice sounded unnatural as Wes repeated the diagonal shape up the other side of my chest. “I also do some freelance writing and editing when needed.”
It wasn’t something I enjoyed explaining.
I didn’t know why my feed was full of authors buying homes and cars with their books while I was forever stuck in the middle of the pack, no matter how many hours I clocked in.
When I was at NYU, I nannied and cat sat and worked at coffee shops or student centers.
Back then, I was so sure I’d escape the ever-present stress of money.
I thought if I wrote good books, they’d be easy to sell, and everything in my life would be all tied up in a neat little bow.
“Hey, that’s fucking impressive,” Wes said, forcing my eyes to return to his. “Do you know how many authors can scrape by from their writing? Not many.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess I thought I’d be further along by now is all.”
“Nova, you’re twenty-five.”
“Well, maybe I’m old at heart like you,” I snapped.
Wes’s lips tipped up. “Or you’re unnecessarily hard on yourself.”
I made a childish look of indignation, despite knowing full well he was onto something.
It was what Hudson had said to me weekly at this point.
“I know it’s stupid to say, but I thought it would all be easier, at least in the end.
I thought by escaping my upbringing, getting an education, majoring in English and taking every creative class or workshop I could, reading and studying and working my ass off with no help or guidance from anyone…
I just thought it would all pay off. I don’t know—like God or the Universe or whoever would reward me for doing all the right things.
I did what the world told me I should do in order to be successful.
The degree, the move to New York, the writing novel after novel.
I taught myself business and marketing. And yeah, it was never easy, and it still isn’t.
I wasn’t picked up by a publisher. I can’t even get an email back from an agent. ”
Here I was, vomiting even more information all over Wes as he patiently listened. He tied another loop of rope behind my back.