“I want to— I want to try something.” Jonah’s holding the scarf I left here 3 weeks ago, the one I told myself I’d forgotten by accident, except I think some part of me knew exactly where it was the whole time.
It’s silk, expensive, a fragment of the life I wear like a costume, and seeing it in his calloused hands feels like a door I left unlocked.
“That’s mine.” “I know.
I’ve been— I’ve been saving it.” “For what?” “This.” He turns it over in his fingers, almost shy about it, but underneath the shyness there’s a stillness, a hunger he’s holding back.
“I want to blindfold you.
If you— if you want to.” “Why?” “Because I think you spend your whole life watching everyone else’s face for permission.
I want you to not be able to, for once.
I want you to just— just feel it instead of managing it.” “That’s a lot of thinking for a blindfold.” “I think about you more than I probably should.” “Is that a— is that a confession?” “It’s a fact.
Take it however you want.” I’m quiet for a second, turning that over, the scarf still hanging loose between his hands.
The idea terrifies me because it requires a surrender I haven’t practiced in 8 years, a total relinquishing of the surveillance I maintain over my own existence, my own face, my own goddamn facial expressions during sex.
“I’m nervous,” I say, because it’s true and there’s no one else in this room to perform for.
“Good nervous or bad nervous?” “I don’t actually know the difference anymore.” “We don’t— we don’t have to.” “I want to.” And I do, even with my heart hammering against my ribs, even with the part of my brain that runs every room I walk into already calculating angles, already managing.
“I want to not manage anything for 20 minutes.” “Tell me if you want it off.
Any second, no explanation needed, I take it off.” “I know.” “I mean it, Margaux.
This stops the second you want it to.” “How do I— how do I know that?” “You don’t, yet.
You just have to find out.” “That’s not very reassuring.” “It’s the only honest answer I’ve got.
Trust isn’t something I can prove to you in advance.
It’s just something you decide to do, and then I either earn it or I don’t.” “I believe you.
That’s— that’s the whole problem.” “Why is that a problem?” “Because nobody else does.” I swallow, my throat tight.
“Grant used to ask.
Early on.
I don’t remember when he stopped checking, I just know one day I noticed he had.” “What changed?” “I don’t know.
Milo, maybe.
Work.
The version of him that asked things just got quieter every year until I stopped expecting him to ask at all.
I told myself that was normal, that’s just— that’s just what happens, 8 years in, nobody keeps asking forever.” “That’s not normal.
That’s just what you got used to.” “Maybe those are the same thing eventually.” “I don’t think they are.
I’m not him.” “I know you’re not.
That’s the problem too.” He doesn’t have an answer for that, or maybe he does and chooses not to use it yet, and instead he just steps closer, scarf in hand.
“Last chance to say no.” “I’m not gonna— I’m not gonna say no.” “You sure?” “I’m sure, Jonah.
Tie the scarf.” He ties it gently, his fingers warm against the back of my head, double-checking it isn’t too tight before he lets go.
The world goes soft black, and for one disorienting second I just stand there in his apartment, blind, breathing, every other sense rushing in to fill the space my eyes used to take up.
The air is cooler on my bare arms than I remember.
The smell of him is everywhere now, laundry detergent and coffee and the faint chlorine that never quite washes out, and I can hear my own pulse in my ears, embarrassingly loud, and somewhere underneath the nerves there’s a feeling close to relief, the strange specific relief of not having to manage my own face for the first time all week.
“Still good?” His voice, close now, closer than I expected.
“Still good.” “Tell me— tell me where my hand is.” “I don’t know.” His fingers land on my collarbone, light as a question, and I gasp before I mean to, the touch landing 10 times harder than it should because I didn’t see it coming, didn’t track the approach, didn’t have time to prepare my face for whatever expression I was supposed to make.
Every nerve ending is suddenly screaming for attention that my eyes used to absorb.
“There,” I say, my voice shaking.
“Now.” “Good guess.” “It wasn’t a guess.” “No?” “I just know you.” He kisses me slow, unhurried, one hand at my jaw and the other finding the hem of my shirt, and without sight the kiss becomes the whole world, his mouth the only fixed point in a room that’s lost all its edges.
His tongue slides against mine and I feel it everywhere, in my chest, in my stomach, between my legs, and I lose my shirt somewhere in the dark.
“Okay so far?” he asks, against my mouth.
“Better than okay.” “You’ll tell me.” “I’ll tell you.” His hands move to my bra, his fingers working the clasp with a patience he doesn’t usually have time for, and when it clicks open and my breasts spill into the cool air my nipples peak instantly, tight and aching, and then his mouth is there, his tongue swirling around my nipple while his hand cups the other breast, his thumb dragging rough across the peak, and I make a sound I don’t recognize, a raw noise between a moan and a sob, my hands flying to his hair and gripping hard.
“Okay?” he asks again, muffled against my skin.
“Don’t stop— don’t stop talking to me.” “I’m not stopping anything.” “Good.
Keep checking.
I like it.” “Noted.” His mouth moves lower, down my stomach, his tongue tracing the line of my hipbone while his hands find the zipper of my skirt.
I hear it slide down, loud in the quiet room, and then his fingers are hooking into my panties and pulling them down my legs and I’m naked and blind and completely at his mercy, and the terror of that and the relief of that are the exact same sensation.
He walks me backward to the bed, his hands on my hips, guiding me, and the mattress meets the back of my knees and I sit.
He kneels.
His palms slide up my thighs, spreading them wide, and I feel his breath, hot and deliberate, against the wet mess between my legs.
“Good?” His voice, muffled now, closer.
“Don’t stop.
Please— please don’t stop.” “I’m not stopping.” His tongue finds my clit and I arch off the mattress, a sound tearing out of me that I’d normally swallow, except there’s no mirror here to perform for, no version of myself I’m managing for an audience.
Just his mouth, his tongue dragging flat and wet through me, his groan vibrating against my pussy like he’s the one being devoured.
I grip the sheets with both hands and let the sounds come, raw and unguarded, and I don’t try to modulate them, I don’t try to be quiet, I just let him hear exactly what he’s doing to me.
He slides 2 fingers inside me, curling them forward, finding the spot that makes my vision go white behind the blindfold, and his tongue keeps working my clit in slow, relentless circles, and the pressure builds low in my stomach, tighter and tighter, and I’m saying his name, the only word left in me.
“Jonah.” “I’m here.” “Don’t stop, don’t you dare— don’t you dare stop—” “Not stopping.” “Jonah—” “Come for me, Margaux.
I’ve got you.” That does it.
That sentence.
I’ve got you.
Three words nobody has said to me in 8 years, because Grant doesn’t have me, he has never had me.
Jonah says I’ve got you and I believe him, and the belief detonates in my chest, and I come with a sob that cracks out of me, raw and involuntary, my whole body convulsing, my pussy clamping down on his fingers, my thighs shaking around his ears, a sound tearing out of me that I don’t recognize as mine, long and unguarded in a way I haven’t let myself be loud in years.
He stays there through the whole thing, his tongue slowing but not stopping, his fingers still curled inside me, and I ride his face through the aftershocks until I can’t take it anymore and I reach down blind and find his face with both hands, pulling him up to me before I’ve thought a single word of what I’m about to say.
“I need you to know this isn’t— this isn’t just sex for me.” The words are out before I can call them back, hanging there in the dark behind the scarf, and I feel him go still under my palms, feel his jaw tighten, surprise and want and fear all moving through the same 6 inches of his face at once.
“Margaux—” “I mean it.” “I know you mean it.
That’s— that’s not the problem.” “What’s the problem, then?” “Give me a second.” “You don’t have to say anything back.” “I’m not gonna say nothing back.
I just need a second to not say the wrong thing.” I pull the scarf off, blinking into the lamplight, and he’s looking at me with his mouth still wet from me, his hair a mess from my hands, his chest rising and falling too fast.
His face is open, unguarded, a look he usually keeps locked down tight.
“I don’t know what this is yet,” I say.
“I just know it’s not— it’s not just sex.” “Okay.” “Okay?” “Okay, I heard you.
I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t.” “That’s not an answer either, Jonah.” “I know.
I don’t have one yet.
Is that— is that allowed?” “It has to be.
I don’t have one either.” He doesn’t say anything else for a second, his thumb moving against my jaw, and whatever he’s deciding, he doesn’t decide it out loud, not yet.
We lie there a while longer than we probably should, his hand still resting against my face like he’s not ready to stop touching me even now that the moment’s passed, and the silence between us feels unfinished, both of us standing at the edge of a thing neither of us is ready to name.
I get dressed slower than I need to, both of us quiet in a way that isn’t uncomfortable so much as too full to talk through.
“You okay?” he asks, while I’m buttoning my shirt.
“I think so.” “That’s not— that’s not a yes.” “It’s the closest thing I’ve got right now.” “I’ll take it.” At the door, jacket half on, keys already in my hand, I stop.
“I think I might be in trouble, Jonah.” “What kind?” “The kind you don’t come back from.” He doesn’t answer that with words, just reaches out and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, slow, unhurried, both of us aware of exactly how little time we actually have left tonight, and I stand there a second longer than I should, memorizing the particular weight of his hand against my face before I make myself walk out the door and back into the version of my life where none of this is supposed to exist.