“Wait,” he breathed, and caught my wrists, stopping their descent.

I shivered, my skin prickling with the nighttime cold. Jack must have noticed, because he let go of me and took off his work shirt before draping it around my shoulders. There was something about the way he did it that made me fall for him a little. How he could be so caring was completely at odds with his gruff, masculine exterior. He tugged me over to a tree and sat down, pulling me between his legs so I was sitting with my back to his front, his arms cradling me in warmth.

I moved against him, and he groaned again. “God, you’re horny tonight.”

“It’s your fault,” I said fitfully.

He growled low and his fingers danced along my thigh, tapping out a silent rhythm. It was unexpected when he began to speak. “This isn’t a pretty story, Lille. In fact, it’s going to make you feel sick beyond belief. And after you hear it, you’ll probably feel sick just to look at me.”

“That’s not possible,” I argued, and he went silent for a moment.

“I told you a little about my foster mother, Frances, though calling her a mother is being very generous. She wasn’t a nice woman, and taking young boys into her home was a money-making scheme, pure and simple.”

All of a sudden, I didn’t want to hear his story. Especially if this was him giving me a good enough answer as to why we couldn’t be together. At the same time, I needed him to tell me so that I could disprove it, counter it with all of my own reasons as to why it didn’t matter.

“Do you mean so she could get government support?” I asked, keeping my voice low and soft.

“Partly. But more so that she could pimp us out.” His stark reply made me startle, and I twisted in his arms so I could look at him. For a moment I thought he might be messing with me, but then, if I knew anything about Jack McCabe, it was that he didn’t beat around the bush. No, he was telling the truth, and I was shocked and disgusted as it all sank in.

“You’re not lying, are you?” I whispered, and he shook his head. I remembered Marina telling me about the first time she’d met Jack on the street, and how he thought she was trying to solicit him for sex. Now it all made sense. The horror of his reality struck me silent as I gripped onto his arm, too tight, almost. Then I began to move my hands to his face, touching him tenderly, like he might break any second as I murmured, “You poor, poor thing.”

For a long time we just sat there, staring into each other’s eyes. Mine said, This doesn’t change how I see you. His said, How can it not?

“I was thirteen when it all started. At night, men would come into the room I shared with two other boys. Sometimes women, though more often than not it was men. You can’t believe how small your world becomes when you depend on one person to survive and that person has no mercy. How it feels like there’s no escape but to suffer in silence. The years went by, and I started to become numb to sex. In the beginning I was aroused against my will, but by the end I felt nothing. I retreated inside my head. I didn’t even want to be with girls my own age because everything connected to my sexuality made me feel sick. I hardly ever masturbated.

“Frances used to call me Freaky Jack because of my burn scars. Sometimes she’d forbid me from wearing a shirt around the house and would periodically poke at my scars, saying how ugly they were, how I was lucky she took me in because nobody else would want a disfigured boy. Her words rang true. My uncle didn’t want me, and neither did my brother. When I was sixteen, I came home one day, and the house was empty except for Frances. She was in the kitchen making lunch, a pan of oil heating on the cooker. When she saw me, she made some cruel comment. I can’t even remember it anymore, but it was the last straw. I completely snapped, picked up the pan of oil, and threw it in her face. I’d never heard screaming like it — her agony as she wailed was satisfying to me. I didn’t feel horror, I felt justice, I felt pleasure. I left her there, disfigured even worse than I was, packed my stuff, and left. I’m not sure if she reported me to the police, but no one ever came for me. I’ve been on my own ever since.”

My brain was still trying to piece together all the information when he continued talking. “To this day, I’ve been obsessed with burning. Obsessed with fire and heat, and what it can do to people. When I was a child, it always frightened me, reminded me of the horror of losing my family and almost dying. Somehow, by harming Frances, I’d turned it into my medicine. I’d burn stuff all the time. It was addicting. You can’t believe the relief it brought me. Then I began learning how to breathe it, how to eat it, and the performance followed. It’s still the only thing that gives me complete sexual gratification, Lille.”

Suddenly, what he was trying to say made sense. I understood why he’d told me his sad, horrific story. It was to make a point. That point said this was his reason. This was his proper answer. You have to stay away from me because being with me means you’ll get burned, literally.

Two memories struck me at once, how I’d burned my hand back home in the restaurant and how Jack couldn’t take his eyes off me afterwards. How it had happened again in Violet’s camper, and that was the first time he’d been overtly sexual towards me. It had turned him on.

“So, you’re into sadomasochism,” I said quietly, and I wasn’t sure if I meant it as a statement or a question.

“More like erotically fixated with burning. Does that frighten you?” he asked, eyes seeking. He was tense as he awaited my reply.

“A little bit,” I answered honestly, and saw him wince. That’s when I knew he’d been holding out hope that I wouldn’t reject him. That he could show me all his flaws and have me accept them. “No, don’t do that,” I said. “Don’t pull away. What that woman submitted you to was unforgiveable. She was a monster, and I would never judge you for what you did to her. By all accounts, she deserved it.”

“But it turned me on, Lille. I told you experiences shape us, twist us, and mine have twisted me in ways not meant for women like you.”

Desperately, I grabbed his hand and placed it on my breast. His breathing grew shallow. “Does that turn you on?” I whispered, and he nodded as he swallowed. I bent and pressed my lips to his throat. “Does this?” Again, he nodded, and I felt the evidence of his arousal in how he hardened against my inner thigh. I smiled as I spoke into his skin. “Then, quite frankly, Jack, I have to ask, what exactly is the problem?”

Abruptly, he turned us so that I was no longer in the power position. He crouched over me, pulling my legs around his waist and growling in my ear, “The problem is that it makes me want to pour wax over your skin, press hot matches to your thighs. It makes want to leave marks all over your body until no man can refute that you’re mine.”

I moaned and pulled him closer, and I wasn’t sure who was more surprised by my reaction, me or him. I couldn’t understand why, because he was telling me he wanted to hurt me, but I’d never been more aroused in my entire life.

With only a few deft movements, he had my legs parted wide, his hand sliding under my dress, beneath the fabric of my underwear, and discovering how wet I was. A strangled cry escaped me as he thrust two fingers into me, and I bit his neck, causing a deep, masculine groan. His body was so magnificent, I wanted to bite and lick him everywhere. He buried his face in my neck, breathing raggedly, and muttering lovely worshipful swear words into my skin.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, you feel good, you’re so wet, shit, I love how you feel, Christ, Lille, I’ve dreamt about this.

His fingers moved in and out, his thumb finding my clit and applying just the right amount of pressure to make me whimper. The sweet relief of his touch was ecstasy. I tried to remember to be frightened, to be scared of what he wanted to do to me, but I couldn’t. The overwhelming urge to have him inside me outweighed everything else until I was nothing but a needy pile of flesh and bones.