Page 19

Her fingers are delicate, but her hands are strong. Someone like me, who has been with her every day this week, can see the signs if she’s packing or not based on how she stands or sits. Something you only notice after a few days of actively looking. How do I even feel about that? Why do I feel anything about that? It’s none of my business. God knows I’ve done enough charity and grant-writing work for the LGBT+ nonprofits in my region. Absolutely no form of gender expression – or lack thereof – surprises me anymore. People are just people. Ira is just… Ira. The one time she expressed any kind of hard identity was at a Pride event when she stuck a non-binary flag behind one ear and a lesbian flag behind the other. For a photo-op that made the local FaceSpace comment section look totally normal. (You know exactly what I mean.) And Ira didn’t care one bit. The mean-spirited and dehumanizing comments rolled right off her back, and I was simultaneously impressed and felt bad for her.

But it’s moments like these when I’m very well aware that the person across from me understands womanhood quite well. Like me, she was raised a certain way. Our paths diverged at puberty, but she gets it. The conditioning. The insults. The weird expectations even the most well-intentioned parents put on you. Most of my romantic partners have been men, simply because I am far more attracted to masculine energy than feminine. So Ira Mathison really fucks me up. I feel it now. She gets me on a level most men could not. Like my anxiety… what exactly I’m anxious about.

Yet that is very much a masculine way of assertively squeezing my hand.

“Sorry,” she says but doesn’t move. Instead, she drops the pencil and lets it roll onto the floor. Her eyes don’t leave mine. “Kathleen.”

I don’t know why she’s said my name, but I’m glad she has. It makes me think of what I heard that night at the club…

Oh my God. My heart is racing. It’s slamming against my chest, and the color! It drains from my face! Meanwhile, she looks like a perfect prince, neither judging nor begging for anything.

Then her fingers poke up through mine, and the next thing I know, our hands are clutched together on top of the table. She closes the lid of her laptop, then mine.

We’re done working. I don’t know what the hell is happening, but I’m out of words, and all I want to do is experience her touching my hand.

I so don’t feel in control right now. It’s… exhilarating. I have no idea what to expect. I always know what to expect, because I drive the car. I know all the stops. I know the ultimate destination. I know what music we’re going to play. Even when backseat driving, I know.

“Kathleen,” she says again, softly. It’s a far cry from the way she groaned it in Midnight, but it leaves an impression. My stomach churns. My groin is making a lot of suggestions right now. “Katie…”

I hold in a gasp. Nobody calls me Katie. Except for when…

For that short stint as a teen when I thought it sounded cute. “Please, call me Katie,” I told Ira when we met at that gala. The same one we made out at. The same one where I felt her through her clothes and she put her mouth on my bare skin.

The same one where I learned how much we really have in common.

It’s hard to believe I was so upset back then. What can I say? I was a selfish kid. Sex was all about my pleasure. I just wanted her body. I wanted her to tear me apart, yeah, but I didn’t stick around after she called my name. I should have. I should have reassured her that it was okay and that we could try again later. Do something… anything other than run out on a hormonal and probably insecure teenager…

I mean, it doesn’t seem like she was traumatized by the event, but if I’ve thought about it every time we’ve bumped into each other over the years… I’m sure she has too.

“Call me Katie…”

She remembered that?

“Nobody’s called me that since high school.”

“Did I offend you?”

Our hands are still interlocked on the table. Where is this going? “No. Don’t call me that in front of other people, though.”

“I wouldn’t.” Her voice is so soft and gentle. Yet firm. Definitely firm. The woman is still a Domme, after all. She makes you feel safe and secure. Like whatever happens is meant to happen, and you can put your trust in her. She’ll take care of you. She’ll make sure you feel good. She’ll do things I normally don’t want a woman to do to me.

“We should put all that behind us.”

“What do you mean?” I’m only half ignorant.

“We’ve been rough on each other when we meet. It’s because of what happened that day, right? We’re both defensive about it. It’s in our nature to react that way, especially as kids.”

“Ira… don’t worry about it. I don’t hold it against you.”

“Oh, I know you don’t really care that I did something that happens to every girl at least once. Just like I don’t really care that your reaction was to freak out and stomp out on me.”

I decide to not hear the mild derision in her tone. “Sounds like we’re both hung up on it.”

“So let’s put it behind us. From now on. We’re adults, right?”

“Yeah.”

Her hand squeezes mine. “Adults, you know… they are more experienced regarding certain things.”