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don’t have a choice but to wait and see. How would you like me?”
    Well, that was a loaded question. Weighted down with other questions like how long until Philip comes looking for him ? and where will we go from here ? I don’t know, I don’t know.
    I stood and dimmed the light, leaving us bathed in soft yellow from my reading lamp. The same as last night, only closer and more intimate because he was here with me. I locked the door too, just in case we had less time than he thought.
    I turned to face him, leaning back against the wall. “Wherever you like.”
    He looked at the bed. He looked back at me.
    He sat down in the armchair by the corner. The message was clear and heartbreakingly thoughtful—no pressure to go further, like a bed might imply. And there was a sweet symmetry, in the place I had stripped myself and where he would do the same. Our reflections caught by the same window, faint impressions trapped in glass where only the two of us could see.
    But even while I appreciated the gesture, unease nudged at me. He seemed so alone in the corner, as if this were a perverted sort of punishment instead of my reward.
    He reached for his zipper, and my breath caught.
    “No,” I breathed.
    His hands froze. He raised his eyes to meet mine.
    “How can I make this…better for you?” Inwardly, I winced at my bumbling ignorance, but I held my ground. This was my room, my show. I could make of it what I wanted. And I never wanted him to hurt.
    “If you were here with me.” His voice roughened. “Near to me. I would come so hard.”
    I knelt on the floor at his feet. My knees cried out in pain, but I couldn’t hear it over the pounding of my pulse. It beat a rhythm of wanting and waiting, a tribal song I somehow knew by heart.
    “Your knees?” he asked.
    “Are fine.” A lie, but if I told him the truth, he would insist that I sit down, that I apply the ice pack with a detached solicitousness that I got from everyone else, all the time. I wanted the other part of him, dark and dirty. I wasn’t the first to be with him like this, but I was here now. And for now, that would be enough.
    He slid open the belt and unbuttoned his pants.
    I shook my head when his hand was halfway down the zipper. “Not yet. First I showed you my—” I looked down at the pale flesh peeking above the leotard I still wore. I had showed him my breasts.
    His gaze was a tender mix of appreciation and bemusement. “Which I appreciated immensely, but I don’t think I have the right anatomy for that.”
    “Show me anyway.” My voice lilted up at the end, turning into a question. Despite my demands, I wanted him to want this. This wasn’t a play at dominance; it was a different sort of game, one with points earned in longing and penalties for shyness. I had bared myself out of nothing more than desire, and I needed the same from him. “I want to see you, but only if you really want this.”
    He didn’t answer with words. Instead he unbuttoned his shirt with slow, lazy flicks of the wrist while his gaze remained locked with mine. He tugged the sides apart, revealing a soft crinkle of hair peeking over the rim of a white tank undershirt.
    After pulling that over his head, he leaned back—a pasha in a vintage chic armchair, casual and seductive and unafraid in the tower where I’d hidden for so long.
    “Do you touch yourself there?” I asked, inclining my head toward his chest. His nipples were brown circles nestled beneath dark brown hair. His skin bunched in ridges at the top of his stomach, then smoothed out into a hairless expanse around his belly button.
    “No.”
    “Just…lower.” Where the hair became thick, pointing down into the waistband of his briefs.
    “Yes, lower. Is that what you want to see? How I touch myself?”
    “When you’re alone. Yes.”
    Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t comment as he pushed down the blue fabric of his briefs and pulled himself out. It was thicker than I’d been