Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
My eyes flutter closed. My chest flushes. This is intimate. Alarmingly intimate.
But why?
We used to do this all the time. He used to draw on my skin with permanent marker. There was never anything sexual about it.
"Topless maybe," he says.
"Topless?" Why is that so hot?
"Yeah. More European."
My laugh breaks up the tension in my shoulders. Mostly. "Is that why you're on the way?"
"Why did you think?"
"Boobs and absinthe?" I ask.
"Of course. It makes you horny."
The ding of the fasten seat belt sign interrupts. It flashes and disappears as the plane straightens. The captain announces beverage service.
Dare eases. He's not the picture of relaxation, but with an incoming cocktail, he's not wound tight.
For a while, he discusses options for my tattoo. Once he finishes with an outline of a pinup, he starts pitching other ideas. Something big, with the ocean, to speak to my love of its power. Or maybe something small. A film reel. A pen. A camera.
As long as it fits in with my other work.
The three pieces he convinced me to get.
The Latin quote, the bird, the ribbon.
The cart arrives. I order a club soda. Dare orders a gin tonic.
Once he's sipping, he settles into his seat.
"So… about masturbation," he says.
I nearly spit out my club soda. "You could have warned me I'd need a drink."
"You don't day drink."
"Airplanes don't count."
"You'll get motion sick." He shoots me an obviously look.
It's true. A little anti-nausea medication is enough to keep me stable during turbulence, but not if I add alcohol.
"Is that going well?" he asks.
"Better now, yes."
He nods the truth feels good, doesn't it? "You using your hand or toys?"
"Do we really need this level of detail?"
He nods, yes. "Your hand is more intimate."
"With yourself?"
"Hell yeah, with yourself. Why would it be any different?"
That's a good point, actually.
"A lot of women pull out their toys and use them on themselves. They don't care if we have any intimacy and they don't want to waste time training me."
"Does that bother you?"
"Nah. We're both there to get off and get out. Besides, I like when a woman takes charge of her own pleasure."
My chest flushes.
"Lets me know she's having fun."
"Is that what you're after?"
"More or less." He takes a long sip and lets the silence fall. Even though we're normally comfortable together, the pause is awkward. Finally, he pushes forward. "What are you after?"
"I want to replace that memory."
"That's a lot to ask of one night," he says.
"I want to prove I can."
"Do you actually want to screw someone?"
"Yes." There's no conviction in my voice. I don't want to sleep with Archie the way Dare means. It's not because I want him. It's not even because I want sex. It's to prove something.
"Someone? Or this guy?"
"What if I say I want to pick up a guy at a bar?" That might be easier. Better.
"You'll never make it happen," he says.
"Hey." I know I'm not as conventionally attractive as some women, but I never expect Dare to remind me.
"You could make it happen, yeah. You're hot, you're smart, you're funny.” He says it casually, as if it's obvious to anyone who looks at me. "But you'll never get comfortable with a stranger."
"I could drink enough to get comfortable," I say.
"Is that really the idea?"
"Why do you have to make such good points? It's annoying."
He smiles, proud and protective at once. "You're welcome."
My chest warms. My stomach churns. It feels good, letting him look out for me, even if the situation is odd. "So Archie it is."
"Do you actually like him?" Dare asks.
"Yes."
He looks at me like he doesn't quite believe me, but he still nods and moves ahead. "So. Toys or hands?"
"I don't have any toys here."
"Hands." He nods. "That's a start. You have to be intimate with yourself before you can do it with someone else."
Why is he making so much sense?
"And, well"—he finishes his drink with one swig—"what else is happening for you? During the act?"
My cheeks flush. "I think of scenarios."
"What kinds?" he asks.
"Normal scenarios."
"You don't have the cash to pay for a pizza?" he asks.
"How did you know?" I deadpan.
"Really." He looks to me. "What sort of scenarios?"
"Is this necessary?"
"I need to know your comfort level," he says.
Or he's deranged. That seems more likely. "How would you know that?"
"Scale of one to ten. One is missionary with your long-term boyfriend. Five is a hookup with an exciting stranger. Ten is you're sold to a mafia boss who will use you however he pleases."
"Where do you even get that?"
"BookTok."
"You don't read. And don't say comics count."
He chuckles, ready to tease me. "I read books you recommend. But, yeah, you're right. I've heard all this from Daisy."
One of his friend's girlfriend. The bookworm at the party. I think. He has a lot of friends. "And she's into this?"
"She won't admit she's into it, but Holden says… well, I promised not to repeat that." He mimes zipping his lips.