Thirteen

I thought Jonah would call for only one of two reasons: either to let me know about some last-minute change in our plans—or to make new plans for another of our games.

But here I am, at nearly eleven P.M., listening to Jonah . . . being concerned.

“I wanted to check on you. When we bumped into each other today, you looked . . .” His voice trails off. How strange, to hear someone as sure and stoic as Jonah Marks sounding uncertain. “You didn’t look good.”

What am I supposed to say? A bad habit of mine—I try to think of what people want to hear, instead of just telling the truth. But I have no idea what Jonah wants.

“I realize I’m out of bounds here,” Jonah says, and now he sounds more like himself. “Still, if I was any part of why you were so upset today—if what we’re doing is turning out to be a problem for you—just say so. We can always call this off, or wait a while. I wouldn’t want to be a part of anything you found disturbing.”

Which is hilarious. From the first moment I laid eyes on Jonah, my life has been nothing but disturbing.

That doesn’t mean I want to call it off.

“We’re fine,” I say. “What got to me today didn’t have anything to do with you. I promise.”

“Okay. That’s good.” To my surprise, Jonah doesn’t hang up then and there. “Are you all right?”

“Yes and no.”

We both fall silent. Maybe Jonah is afraid I’m going to start spilling my guts to him. Sharing my secrets. I have no intention of doing so. That kind of intimacy can’t be a part of our arrangement.

Yet he stays on the line. He’s giving me the option—or, more likely, can’t think of a polite way out of this.

When Jonah finally speaks, he sounds steady again. Strong. His voice alone makes me flush with heat, from my cheeks to between my legs. “Do you want me to hang up now?”

I crave that steadiness, that strength. More than that, I crave him.

Very quietly I say, “No.”

“What do you want to talk about?” He’s wary, but willing.

My bed is only steps away. I lower myself onto it, propping myself up on the pillows. “Anything. Just—distract me.”

“Not the usual distraction, you mean.”

I wonder what phone sex with Jonah would be like? There’s something about the way he speaks—and it’s not just his mesmerizing voice. Every single word seems to have been rationed. Measured. He reveals nothing he doesn’t want to reveal. No emotion slips through unless he allows it. The totality of his control, his command of himself . . . it’s even more intoxicating now that I know the intensity he’s just barely holding back. And it reminds me of how fucking incredible it felt when he took control of me.

Phone sex with Jonah might be amazing.

But I still smell like cleaning products, and I’m wearing my grubbiest Longhorns shirt, and I feel about as sexy as Jabba the Hutt. If I’m going to get in to the mood, I need a moment.

Softly I say, “Not the usual . . . yet.”

“Interesting.” I can imagine his fierce smile as he says that. “So, what would you prefer as prelude?”

I notice that Jonah volunteers nothing. We aren’t going to discuss our personal lives or our emotions—that would violate our covenant to remain strangers to each other as much as possible. So I need a completely neutral topic. The first thing that springs to mind: “Tell me about Antarctica.”

“You want to talk about a place with no rain, little life, and temperatures down to a hundred degrees below zero. I wouldn’t have guessed that was your idea of foreplay.”

“I just meant—” I have to pause while I pull my T-shirt up over my head. “It’s somewhere I’ll probably never get to see.”

“You don’t have to apologize for being interested. I was teasing you.” Jonah pauses, and I realize he’s searching for words. “Antarctica is . . . brutal. But beautiful. Unlike anything else on earth.”

I lie back on my bed. I’m topless now, clad only in my panties; the sweat on my skin could have been earned a very different way. “By brutal you mean the cold, right?”

“The cold, and the katabatic winds—those are the ones that scour the ground, stripping away all the snow.”

“I thought Antarctica was covered in snow.”

“Some areas are. But a lot of the continent is desert. The most desolate place on earth.”

“So why do you call it beautiful?”

Jonah thinks for a few long moments before answering. “Weakness can’t survive there. People live with as few possessions as they can manage, on the very edge of survival. Even the air is clearer. The sunlight can be almost blinding. It’s the only place in the world with that kind of purity. That’s why I call it beautiful.”

For Jonah, savagery is beauty. I can believe that. “What else?” I ask.

“The aurora australis, I guess. That’s beautiful.”

I’ve heard of this. “Like the northern lights, but southern, right?”

“Right. They paint the sky green and gold, and the light surrounds you.”

I wouldn’t have thought of Jonah as someone who’d be enraptured by anything so poetic. Then again, maybe the aurora australis is truly exquisite. Even a man carved out of stone would be moved.

Though I know Jonah’s not made of stone. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized I knew that.

How much am I learning about him, as we go through this?

How much is he learning about me?

Then I feel uneasy once more—off-balance, unsure of anything. In the valley between tantalized and afraid. Which is just where I like to be, with Jonah.

“Maybe we should make plans,” I say. “For next time.”

If Jonah is surprised by my change of subject, he doesn’t show it. But when his answer comes it’s in a deep purr that’s almost a growl. “Anything you want. As long as it’s soon.”

“How soon?”

“As soon as I can have you.”

I suck in a deep breath. Already my nipples are hard, darkening even as I lie here on my bed, all but naked and alone.

He wants me to name the scenario. It’s not that I don’t know what I want from him; it’s that the list is so long that I hardly know where to begin.

Besides, the control should be Jonah’s. When I do this, I turn myself over to him, completely.

“When you imagine taking me,” I whisper, “what is it like?”

“So many ways. Different positions, different speeds. Slowing down to pin you under me forever. Speeding up until I’m pounding you senseless.”

Oh, God. I writhe atop my covers, my panties are already starting to get wet. “Yes,” I say.

Jonah keeps going. “Sometimes I think about that night we met. I hated myself for the things I wanted to do to you, but I still wanted it. Wanted you.”

“I wanted you too. I wanted you to—to make me thank you, or just push me into the backseat.” Those fantasies tormented me so much that night. Now they’re fuel for the fire building within me. “So let’s do that.”

“That’s what you want next time? To act out how we met, and what we really wanted?” Jonah likes the idea; I can tell. “Whenever you want.”

My cunt pulses so hard that for a moment I think I’m going to come right here. “Tonight.”

After a moment of silence, Jonah says, “Now?”

I sit upright on the bed. “Now.”

“We’ll need thirty minutes.” He sounds impatient; even half an hour is too long. “Meet me—in Zilker Park. On Columbus, past that first side road. Wear that little sundress again.”

Am I really going to do this? Head out into the dark right before midnight, to turn myself over to Jonah?

“Yes,” I say, and I hang up without another word. It’s not like that was good-bye.

I take a two-minute shower so I won’t go to our rendezvous smelling like detergent. My hair gets a quick comb-through, and I waste a few precious moments in front of my jewelry box, trying to remember which earrings I wore that night. In the end, I just grab some simple silver studs. The red sundress is clean, and without my bra, I appreciate the softness of the cotton more than ever before. Panties are probably a waste of time, but I bet Jonah’s dreamed about tearing them off. When I met Jonah, I was wearing pretty simple sandals, but tonight I put on crazy high stilettos. Then I hurry to my Civic and drive to the rendezvous.

At this hour on a weeknight, even the streets of Austin are mostly bare. Downtown there would be some activity—but not out here. The city lights are invisible, hidden by the park’s many trees. I pull my car off the main road, onto the gravel shoulder.

Nobody’s likely to drive out this way. If someone does, we’ll be able to see the lights far enough in advance to keep a passerby from seeing anything and . . . drawing the wrong conclusion. Jonah chose well.

I step out of the car. Dry grass crunches beneath my high heels. The only illumination close by comes from my headlights. The September night is as sultry as July, and the sound of cicadas shimmers louder, softer, then louder again. It’s the sound of heat itself, of summer bearing down on you without mercy.

The last time I met Jonah like this, I had a flat tire. Puncturing it now would be taking reenactment too far. General car trouble will do.

Then, in the distance, I see a car driving up behind me.

At first I flush with excitement—and then I think, what if it’s not him? What if some other person—some other man—is about to drive by and see me supposedly stranded and helpless on the side of the road?

Every danger I faced that first night comes to life again within my mind. The adrenaline pumping into my blood suddenly feels more like fear than arousal.

I take a couple of steps closer to the car door—I can get inside within seconds and drive away if need be. Then I stand there, breaths coming fast and shallow, as I try to make out the shape of the car coming closer.

A sedan, low and dark and long, like something a Secret Service agent would drive. It’s Jonah after all.

The flush of fear mingles with my relief, and my desire. That hint of terror will make everything just real enough.

I take a deep breath and let it out. I don’t have to control myself any longer.

I’ll give myself to Jonah, and everything else—the things that worry me, that haunt me, everything—it will all fall away. Jonah will be the only one left.