“Are you obfuscated, X?”
“Completely.” Am I gazing up at him?
I am. Very much so. I am faint. My heart is pitter-pattering. I want to feel his hands in mine again.
“Good,” he says. “Then my work here is done.”
“Jokes do not suit this situation, Logan.”
“No?” He sounds serious, suddenly. His voice smooth, too smooth. Too featureless. A little cold. “What am I supposed to say then? That I’m still absurdly, childishly hurt by the fact that you chose him over me? Or that I legit just cannot stop thinking about you? Wanting you? That I keep wanting to show up at your door again and literally carry you off over my shoulder like a fucking Viking? What is the right etiquette for a situation like this, Madame X?”
“Don’t, Logan. Please don’t.” I don’t mind begging.
“I can still feel you, your bare legs around my waist.” His voice is in my ear, murmuring. Intimate. Sensuous. “I can feel the heat from your tight * against my stomach. I can smell you. I can feel how wet you are for me. For me. You wanted me, X. I could have done anything I wanted with you. I had you naked, in my arms. Wet and wanting and desperate and all over me. I could have laid you down on the carpet right there in the hallway and fucked you senseless, and I guarantee you, if I had, you wouldn’t have walked away from me.”
“Then why didn’t you?” Oh, I am damned.
“Because you weren’t ready, and you still aren’t. You were scared, and you still are. You were like a frightened little rabbit out of its hole for the first time, blinking in the sunlight. There’s a lioness inside you, X, you just have to find it and become it.”
“I didn’t even make it ten feet from the door on my own, Logan,” I whisper against the soft cotton of his T-shirt.
“But you walked out, didn’t you? Baby steps to the elevator, Bob.”
“What?”
“What About Bob?” he asks, expectant. “No? Nothing? Okay, never mind. It’s a movie reference.”
I sigh. “Total amnesia, remember? Movies are not exactly a common feature in my life, Logan.”
“Well, that’ll be the first thing I’ll rectify. You and me, we’ll stay naked in my bed for a month, having hot, wild monkey sex and watching movies. Catch you up on all the great cinema you’re missing out on. What About Bob? is a classic. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Goodfellas, The Godfather, shit, I’ll even throw in some rom-com for you. Notting Hill is a great one, or How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. Or, wait, wait, Love Actually. God, that movie is awesome, although I know some people hate it. I love it. It’s real.”
“Hot and wild monkey sex, Logan? Really?”
He laughs in my ear, pulling me to his chest, arms wrapping around me. “Yes, X. Hot and wild monkey sex. It’s the greatest thing on earth. No inhibitions, no time, no responsibilities, nothing but both of us taking as much pleasure from each other as we can, for hours and hours and hours until we’re too exhausted to even move.”
“And watching movies.”
“And watching movies. And drinking beer by the case, and ordering pizza and Chinese takeout.”
“I’ve never had either,” I admit.
“You’re not for real, are you?” He is utterly incredulous.
“And you’re not still surprised at my lack of experience with things you deem normal, are you?”
“It just seems wrong,” he says. “Beer and pizza . . . it’s like—a basic, elemental part of life. Seriously. Without beer and pizza and movies, you’re not really living.”
“I certainly feel alive.”
“X . . . you are alive, yes, but are you living? Not just existing, not just continuing to be physically present in the world day by day, but . . . enjoying life. Making a difference. Being totally you. Owning who you are and choosing a life that fulfills you. Because from where I’m standing . . . it doesn’t seem that way.”
“And beer, pizza, and movies is a part of that, is it?” His words hit too close to bull’s-eye, and my defenses are engaging.
A sigh. “No, X. It is for me, yes. But in the context of this conversation, beer, pizza, and movies are a standin for you having the freedom to make your own choices. You’re still wearing designer clothes, I notice. Probably designer lingerie underneath, too. When I took you shopping, I bought you basic clothes. Basic comfortable jeans, a T-shirt, basic bra and underwear. Nothing fancy. And you seemed . . . I don’t know, more you in them. This is still you, this designer-clothes-fancy Madame X. But that’s Madame X. Not X, just X. And I don’t think you’re free to choose that. Not while you’re with him.”
“Logan—”
“All I’m going to say here is that to me, you deserve more. More than just fancy clothes and a penthouse prison.”