Don’t, whispers the rational part of my brain, the part that knows I shouldn’t go here even in my own mind. My rape fantasies about faceless strangers—those are one thing. Thinking about Jonah, the man who wants to tie me up and take me down for real: That’s a whole new level of fucked-up.

But I seem to have reached that level at last.

I wriggle out of my underwear, and my hand steals between my legs. As my fingers start circling, I close my eyes, the better to dream of Jonah standing over me.

He has a belt, a rope, something, and he winds it around my wrists. He ties the other end to one of the bedposts, then tugs my body down so that my arms are stretched above my head. I whimper in fear. It just makes him smile. He pulls off my panties, pushes my legs open so wide it almost hurts. I hear the purr of his zipper. It’s too dark for me to see his cock, but I feel the rigid head pushing against me—into me—

In my mind I keep replaying that, the moment he plunges inside, the first shock of penetration, Jonah’s satisfied groan, my own desperate cry. Over and over again, the first time every time, as fast as he could actually thrust—and then I come so hard it makes me dizzy. Everything is blurred and humming, and I know nothing but the pulse of my cunt as it contracts, wanting the man who isn’t there.

As soon as I can breathe again, I say, “Oh, shit.”

If just imagining Jonah Marks playing this role for me gets me off that hard, what would the reality be like? I don’t want to find out.

Or maybe I do.

Either way, I’m not going to be able to stop thinking about Jonah anytime soon. So much for sleep.

•   •   •

My entire weekend goes something like this:

Get up, eat breakfast, exercise. Resolve not to think about Jonah so much today.

Get some work done in the studio.

Break for lunch; head home for sandwich. Start thinking about Jonah.

Masturbate to the thought of him, right in the middle of the day, groaning and panting on my bed.

Put my clothes back on. Run an errand, or see a friend. Pick out a funny card at the store to send to Libby, so she doesn’t completely forget her Aunt Vivi. Have trouble remembering what to buy at the store, or what to say next in a conversation, because my mind is still chained to the shadow of Jonah Marks.

Go home. Get myself off again. Toss my wet panties in the hamper and put on a fresh pair.

Try to think of something fun to do in the evening. Play video games with friends. Listen to music in a club. Spend the whole time imagining Jonah’s hands on my skin.

Get into bed. Tell myself there’s no way I can possibly need another orgasm.

Think about Jonah. Give myself another orgasm. Fall asleep.

At least I don’t remember any of my dreams over the weekend. Sleep is the only time I have away from Jonah. I go through six pairs of panties in two days.

On Monday morning, I’m awakened by my iPhone, which offers up the day’s appointments along with the song that rouses me. Squinting, I scroll through the appointments on autopilot, until I get to my usual therapy time. Today it says, Remember: Doreen in Florida.

My therapist told me a month ago that she would miss two weeks to visit her son in Tampa. I put it in my phone and otherwise forgot about her absence. It’s been a while since I was so fragile that even a two-week break from therapy seemed like a crisis. Now, though, I feel a small shiver of dismay. Doreen would have talked some sense into me. She would have reminded me that I’m trying to get further away from this fantasy, not to wrap myself up in it until it dominates my whole life. I would have walked out of her office refreshed, stable, and ready to get back to normal.

Instead, Doreen is half a country away, and Jonah is very, very close.

I throw on cropped pants and a simple white top, slide my feet into sandals, tug my hair into a ponytail, and drive to the university. As usual, merging into the thick campus traffic is a pain; we wind up with a Los Angeles–worthy traffic jam virtually every day. UT Austin is one of the biggest college campuses in the nation—more than fifty thousand students, nearly twenty-five thousand faculty and staff, with 150 buildings spread out across more than four hundred acres. All around me in traffic are undergrads driving to class. Even the lucky few who get to live on campus are sometimes so far from their classrooms that they take their cars instead of walking.

That said, every college is really a few hundred smaller colleges all wrapped into one. Each building, each department, has its own personality and its own cast of characters. I don’t venture far from the School of Fine Art, as a general rule.

No doubt this is why I walk up to the building to see Geordie sitting on the metal bench out front. He holds a piece of paper, which he’s crumpled slightly between tense fingers. When he sees me, his eyes widen. Even though he’s clearly been waiting for me, he dreads what I’m going to say.

He should.

As I walk up to him, Geordie gets to his feet. “Vivienne, I’m so, so bloody sorry about Friday night.”

“You ought to be.” I cross my arms. “Do you even remember what happened? Or did Carmen have to tell you later?”

He scratches his head with his free hand. “I’m not denying it’s a bit blurry. But I remember.”

“That was personal, Geordie. As personal as it gets. No matter how drunk you were, you should never, ever have let those words come out of your mouth.”

“I know that. I do.” He looks so earnest. Almost heartbroken, like what he said hurt him more than it did me. Geordie always wants to do the right thing; he just doesn’t always get there.

This time, though, I’m not letting him off the hook. “I don’t discuss what our sex life was like. Not even with my best friends, and definitely not with strangers at a party. If we’re going to stay friends, you have to do better than this. Do you understand?”

Slowly, Geordie nods. The two of us stand there in awkward silence for a few moments before he straightens out the piece of paper. “I felt so bad about this that I wrote you a poem.”

“. . . a poem?”

“Yes.” He stands almost at attention, like a politician about to give a speech. “The title is, ‘I Am a Complete and Total Shit.’”

I’m not going to laugh. I’m not.

Geordie reads: “I am a complete and total shit / sometimes I act like a stupid git / when I become a blabbermouth / all my relationships go south / forgive this lowly wretched wanker / or I’ll be sad, nothing rhymes with wanker.”

I can’t help it anymore. Giggles bubble up inside me, and Geordie’s worried face gentles into a smile of relief. I never could stay mad at him for long. “Please tell me there are no more verses,” I say.

“I felt I’d achieved poetic perfection in just six lines. Less is more, you know?”

“Yeah. For instance, less intimate details about our relationship, more enjoyable parties.”

He puts one hand on my arm—not a romantic move, just a reassuring one. “I swear to you, I’ll never reveal anything that personal about us again. Never. There’s not enough gin in the world to get me that drunk.”

I sigh. “Okay. But you’re on probation.”

“My sentence is just and fair, Your Honor.” Geordie squeezes my arm, then steps back. “So, I’ve got to get to class.”

The law school isn’t particularly close. “Will you have to run it?”

“Possibly. But we’re all right?”

“. . . sure.”

With a grin, Geordie turns away to lope across the green. He’s older than almost all the other students, but the way he moves—running, his longish brown hair flopping with every bound—he looks more like a kid than any of them. Shaking my head, I watch him go.

The teaching assistants all share a space on the fourth floor. The elevators only go to three. I take the steps the whole way—it’s less irritating. Our designated office is as grand as you’d expect: a long narrow room that was probably originally designed as a closet, outfitted with the oldest, most beat-up desks that haven’t already been thrown out as scrap. I don’t really mind. Most of my work is done at home or in the studio anyway. Besides, even as low as I am on the totem pole, I still get to rely on the department secretary.