Then again, I’m here making plans for a guy I hardly know to pretend to rape me. It could be argued I lost my head a while ago.

“We’ll want a safe word,” Jonah says.

I’ve heard of a safe word, of course, but I always thought it was strictly an S&M thing. It makes sense for us, though. We’re already talking about scenarios in which I might be physically fighting him off. Jonah needs to know what it would sound like if I said no for real. “Silver.”

“Silver?”

“That’s the safe word. Silver.” I chose it off the top of my head, but now I like it. “What do we do if I want you to stop, but I can’t talk?”

Either because he has me gagged, or because his cock is in my mouth . . .

“Then snap your fingers. You should always be able to do that.” Jonah smiles slowly. He knows he has me where he wants me. “Even in handcuffs.”

I can’t speak. My breaths are short and fast between parted lips. Part of me is terrified by the thought of this man putting me in handcuffs. The other part of me wishes he’d do it this second. Cuff me, drag me out of here and do God knows what for hours—

“Don’t worry. Like you said, I won’t use handcuffs the first time,” he murmurs. “Or ropes, or any other kind of restraints. I realize that’s something I’ll have to earn.”

My voice is husky as I say, “I’d like it if we got there. Someday.”

“Me too. As soon as you’re ready, but not before.” Jonah extends his arm along the back of the couch. He doesn’t put his arm around me. Instead he brushes the curve of my shoulder with his fingertips. The touch sets me on fire. “Anything else you don’t want when we get together the first time? Be specific. Because there are a lot of things I want to do to you. If I should avoid any of them, tell me now, so I don’t get my hopes up.”

Once again I glance around; this is something else I don’t want overheard. “This time—um—no anal sex.”

I blush from even having said that out loud.

Jonah’s fingers stroke the curve of my shoulder again. “That’s a shame.”

“Just not the first time or two. Okay? If this turns out to be too scary for me, too much, then I don’t want that to be a part of it.”

He nods, comprehending. “You haven’t done that before, have you?”

“No,” I whisper.

“But you’d give it to me eventually? That gives me something to work for. Something else to earn.”

In all honesty, I find the idea of anal sex intimidating. It’s not something I’ve ever wanted to do for my own sake. None of the guys I’ve dated had much interest in trying it, which was fine with me.

Still, in my fantasies, it’s often there. A rapist wouldn’t care what I wanted or didn’t want. He’d make me take it.

Just like Jonah eventually will.

“Anything else?” Jonah says. When I shake my head no, he straightens, once again businesslike. “Friday night, then. Unless you have plans—you don’t? Good. Here’s what I want you to do. Go to a hotel; I’ll let you know which one. I will have paid for a room in your name. Check in. Get comfortable. Then, around eight P.M., go down to the hotel bar. Have a couple of drinks. A couple too many.” His eyes burn with intensity. He’s thought out every word of this. “I’ll be there. I’ll try to pick you up. But you’re not interested. When you walk out of the bar, I’ll follow you. At the door of your hotel room, you try to ditch me. I won’t let you.”

It’s as though Jonah has looked down into the core of me and seen exactly what I want. “What then?”

“That’s up to me.”

Oh, God. If I could come just from hearing a man talk, that would have done it. Hearing Jonah make plans for my body has me more turned on than most guys’ foreplay ever has. “Up to you,” I repeat.

“One last thing.” Jonah leans even nearer, so close I think he’s about to kiss me. Instead he murmurs, “How do I make you come?”

My cheeks burn hot, as if we’d been overheard by everyone in the bar. “That should, um, take care of itself.” When he frowns, I have to explain. “Most women don’t get off just on penetration, but I can almost always get there.”

Of course, I get there by fantasizing about being raped by a man, even while my partner is still inside me. When Jonah and I are together, that fantasy will turn real.

“Perfect.” He smiles. “By the way, that night? Don’t wear clothes you’re interested in ever wearing again.”

Before I can even fully envision Jonah tearing my clothes off, he stands up. I’m caught off guard. “Wait. You’re just—leaving?”

“Unless we have anything else to discuss.” He tugs down the tail of his shirt—to cover his hard-on, I realize. Seeing how badly he wants me makes me want him back even more. Jonah, however, acts like he doesn’t give a damn. “If you have any more questions, ask now.”

I know this is the furthest thing from a first date. I know we agreed that the less we found out about each other as individuals, the better the role-playing would be. But I didn’t realize he was cold enough to walk off like this.

Then again, cold is what I need. Cold and unyielding.

Yet one question is difficult to set aside. “Aren’t you going to tell me why you want this?”

Jonah pauses, only for a moment. “Are you going to tell me why you want it?”

No, I’m not.

So I lift my chin. “Friday night at eight?”

“Friday night.”

He turns and walks away without once looking back.

Seven

“Earth to Vivienne.”

I realize I’m still sitting at Arturo and Shay’s table, my half-finished dinner in front of me. Both of them are staring at me—half worried, half amused.

“Sorry,” I say. “My graduate work is taking over my brain these days. Why not? It already took over my life.”

The words come too quickly, too easily. That might be the only thing my mother ever taught me to her satisfaction: how to lie.

Arturo rises from his chair. “Sounds like someone needs a beer.”

“No, really, I’m fine.”

“I’m not,” Shay chimes in. “Get me a ginger ale while you’re up, would you?”

He sticks his tongue out at her, which makes her giggle, then goes to fetch her a can of Canada Dry.

It is not yet Friday night, I remind myself. It is Thursday. The hotel and Jonah and everything else that happens tomorrow is for tomorrow. Today you’re with your friends. Act like it.

Shay is so proud of this meal, too. I’m their first dinner guest in their new place—“trying to make a home of a rented house,” as the song says. She’s into comfort foods these days, learning to make old-fashioned, Grandma’s-house stuff like pot roast, pound cake, and tonight’s chicken pot pie. Apparently that’s a hipster thing, all the home-style recipes. This chicken pot pie is probably ironic. It’s also delicious, though, so yay for hipsters.

We’re eating at a card table set up at the far end of the kitchen. Whatever money they have for furniture is going toward the nursery. For the rest of the house, Shay says they’ll decorate with Salvation Army and Goodwill stuff, or even dumpster diving. (That works better in a college town than it does most places. You wouldn’t believe the things that get thrown out by nineteen-year-olds who didn’t have to pay for it.) So far the house looks pretty bare.

Yet this place already feels like a home. It’s illuminated by the way Arturo and Shay care for each other, the hopes they have for the future. I feel more comfortable here than I’ve felt in my parents’ house—my childhood home—for a very long time.

I would say as much to Carmen, if she were here. Supposedly she has a bunch of test papers to grade. My guess is that she’s still not ready to see Shay as the “woman of the house,” but surely she’s going to get over that soon.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Shay pats my shoulder. “I think you’re pushing yourself. Not taking enough time to rest.”