“Go to your room, young lady.”
He issues this order, trying not to smile as he points his finger towards my bedroom.
Now I try not to smile, but I don’t succeed. I try to turn my girly delight into a smirk, the kind that doesn’t show any teeth but does reveal that I’m not entirely opposed to being told what to do. In fact, I love that he somehow knows I love this — being told what to do — even though we’re new. Only a man who would never speak to me like this can speak to me like this.
It sends heat down my body instantly. I am anticipating, but I’m not sure what.
He follows me inside my bedroom. Outside the window it’s dark, even though it’s early evening. Honks in the distance — Manhattan white noise. I stand by the bed, pretending to challenge him. I’m not just going to lie down.
“Lie down,” he says.
I reach for the bedside lamp. To turn it off. There’s enough light from the street lamps outside to illuminate this plan of his.
“Don’t.”
I look at him. He means it.
“Leave it on. I want to see what I’m doing.”
“Oh?” I raise my brow. “And what exactly will you be doing?”
“I’m going to figure you out,” he says gruffly, almost to himself, as he pushes my shoulders back onto the bed.
“What does that mean?” I ask, staring at the soft amber light on the ceiling, as I feel him pull down my cords. They’re tight, but he manages to yank them off with a purpose.
But of course I know what he means.
It’s my turn to demand: “Fuck me now.”
He brings his face up to mine. Triumphant. He kisses me deeply, his beard smelling of the me he’s brought forth.
I have been figured out.
- Faith Salie
