15. Julia #3
“The weird thing is that what happened never really changed what I like,” I continue. “At least I don’t think it did. Maybe everything connects somewhere if you dig deep enough, but I’m not particularly interested in turning every sexual preference I have into a trauma response.”
“Fair.”
“I still like what I like.”
Tessa’s mouth curves because she knows exactly what I mean. “You mean you still don’t want anyone making sweet, tender love to you beneath a skylight while Ed Sheeran plays in the background.”
I groan. “I would rather be celibate.”
“Noted.”
“The gentle stuff has always been harder for me sometimes, which sounds completely backward when I say it aloud.”
“It doesn’t sound backward to me.”
I glance at her.
Tessa lifts one shoulder. “I know you.”
Simple as that.
I look toward the television, although I’m no longer following whatever is happening on it. “I’ve cried during gentle sex before.”
“I know.”
“Not because the guy did anything wrong.”
“I know that too.”
“It just...” I search for the feeling because explaining this has always been harder than understanding it inside my own body.
“Sometimes when somebody gets very soft with me, really careful and quiet, it reminds me too much of being still. That night wasn’t violent in the way people imagine rape.
There wasn’t a fight. He didn’t need one because I couldn’t fucking move properly. ”
Tessa remains silent.
“The rougher stuff feels completely different because I’m choosing it.
I’m there for it. If I want somebody to hold me down, I asked for that.
If I want restraints or a hand around my throat, that’s something we’ve agreed on.
There’s nothing passive about it just because somebody else technically has control.
” The thought settles more fully as I say it.
“In some ways, I think rough sex requires somebody to listen harder.”
Tessa’s brows lift slightly.
I turn toward her. “That sounded like something Kai would say, didn’t it?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
I groan and reach for my wine.
“But you’re right,” she adds. “There’s a huge fucking difference between somebody taking control because you gave it to them and somebody deciding your wishes don’t matter.”
“Exactly.”
That is the difference. Maybe the most important one.
I have never wanted a man who merely takes.
What I like is giving control to someone who understands exactly what a responsibility that is.
Someone who can hold it without confusing permission with ownership.
The thought sends a strange ripple through me because another sentence surfaces immediately.
You are mine, Little Ember.
My hand stills around the stem of my wineglass.
The black envelope is twenty feet away. For one second, I consider telling her.
I could get up, cross the room, open the drawer and place it in her hands.
Tessa would believe me immediately. She would also lose her fucking mind.
There would be no casual discussion. She would ask when it arrived, why I didn’t tell her, whether I called the police, whether I have cameras and why in the name of every patron saint of bad decisions I have spent five days sitting on evidence that someone has been watching my house.
She would probably insist on staying for the next week.
Maybe she should. The thought almost gets me off the sofa.
Then I remember there hasn’t been another letter.
Nothing else has happened. I haven’t felt watched since that night before the envelope appeared.
Maybe whoever it was really did stop. The relief returns first. Then, humiliatingly, that tiny thread of disappointment right behind it. I hate both of them.
“Jules?” I look back at Tessa.
She is watching me. “What?”
“You went somewhere.”
“Oh.” I force my attention back into the room. “Sorry. I was just thinking.”
“About kinky sex?”
The opportunity to tell her remains open for another second. I let that opportunity fade into the background.
“Obviously. I’m very deep.” Tessa accepts the answer because why wouldn’t she?
She reaches for another piece of pizza. “What about Michael?”
The sudden change of subject almost gives me whiplash. “What about him?”
“If you miss sex and you already know he wants you, there is a very attractive solution currently walking around your office in expensive shirts.”
I laugh. “You would sleep with Michael.”
“If I were single and Michael looked at me the way you say he looks at you, I would have already made several questionable choices near a photocopier.”
“You are exactly why human resources departments exist.”
“I said questionable, not illegal.” She wiggles her eyebrows and takes a sip.
“He’s a partner.”
“And not your direct supervisor.”
“That doesn’t magically make it a good idea.”
Tessa settles her glass against her stomach. “It doesn’t have to become a relationship. You’re allowed to have sex with somebody because you want sex.”
“I know.”
“And you’re attracted to him.”
“I know that too.”
“Then I fail to see the tragedy.”
I shift until I’m sitting more comfortably against the cushions. “The problem is that I don’t think Michael is asking because he wants to sleep with me once.”
Tessa’s expression becomes more thoughtful.
“He remembers my coffee order. He finds reasons to stop at my desk that have nothing to do with whatever he supposedly came over for. When he asked me out, he didn’t ask whether I wanted to get a drink after work or suggest some vague late-night thing that could become sex if both of us happened to feel like it. He asked me to dinner.”
“Men have occasionally been known to eat before intercourse.”
“Thank you for that anthropological insight.”
“I’m here to educate.”
I smile, but continue. “You know what I mean. The way he approaches me doesn’t feel casual. Maybe I’m wrong, but if I sleep with him and he wants something more afterward, I haven’t solved anything. I’ve just created exactly the situation I was trying to avoid.”
“And you genuinely don’t want to date him?”
I think about that before answering. “Not enough to risk work.”
Tessa watches me. “That’s actually a very clear answer.”
“I know.”
“Hot Doctor would be proud.”
“Please stop bringing my psychiatrist into my hypothetical sex life.”
“Oh, babe, I didn’t bring him there. Your face did that all by itself.”
My head turns toward her so quickly she bursts out laughing. “What face?”
“That one.” She points with her glass in the general direction of my face.
“There is no face.”
“There was absolutely a face.”
“I am not attracted to my psychiatrist.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You heavily implied it.”
“I said your face did something when I mentioned him.”
“My face is autonomous. I can’t be held responsible for all of its decisions.”
Tessa laughs harder, and I throw one of the decorative pillows at her. She catches it against her chest.
“For the record,” I add, “I am aware he’s attractive because I have eyes. That is not the same as wanting to sleep with him.”
“Fine.”
By midnight, both bottles of wine are empty enough that opening the third feels irresponsible, which has never stopped us before but apparently age has finally provided one functioning survival instinct.
We change into pajamas, wash our faces and end up back on the couch under separate blankets while some terrible dating show plays in the background.
Tessa falls asleep first. She always does.
One minute she is explaining in great detail why a woman on television should absolutely not marry a man named Bryce after knowing him for nine days, and the next her sentence disappears somewhere around emotionally unavailable motherfucker and her breathing changes.
I look over. Her mouth is slightly open.
“Beautiful.”