Page 22 of Salt in the Wound
Play the part. Both for Mark and for myself.
I pressed my palms to the floor, feeling how much more vulnerable I was like this. Now I couldn’t seeormake use of my hands.
I shifted my weight forward, and my hair slid off my shoulders. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel that Mark had been right—my hair was dragging on the floor as I crawled. And I didn’t doubt that my breasts were hanging a little too, the fabric of the sports bra not enough to withstand gravity at this angle.
I moved toward where I’d last heard his voice, where I believed the bench to be, and tried to ignore how awkward it felt. Everything was awkward the first time. A new kata, a new prayer, going through the cafeteria at college. It was practice that bred ease, not rightness. And if I were going to pretend like this was right for me, what would I be feeling right now? Noticing with senses honed from years of eavesdropping?
Mark’s breathing. Yes. It seemed a little rougher now, a little more tightly controlled.
From watching me crawl?
Warmth bloomed on my chest as I continued moving, becoming fully aware of how my backside was moving from side to side as I crawled, how my back had curved. How fragile and humble I must have seemed with my blindfold on and my head down.
If this were right for me, I’d be thinking about my effect on Mark, about how pleased he’d be with my obedience, how aroused he’d be by the sight of me like this, debased and willing. I’d be thinking that if I continued to please him, he might touch me. He might have me spread my knees apart so he could slide his fingers past the waistband of my bike shorts and feel if I were wet. He might bend me over and make use of me until I was limp and boneless and he was satisfied for the night.
And if this were right for me, that thought would have me tormented with need. I’d want it so much that my breathing would speed up and the ache between my thighs would blossom into something full and distracting. There would be nothing I wouldn’t do to have Mark keep noticing me.
“Very good,” murmured Mark as my fingertips touched his shoes. “You may settle back on your knees now.”
I did—and then swayed.
I’d become dizzy somehow.Me—the athlete, the martial artist. I’d never been dizzy a day in my life, and yet here I was, my lips and fingers tingling, unable to tell up from down—
Mark caught me before I fell, and with a strength that made me envious and exhilarated at the same time, pulled me onto his lap. I was tucked against the solid expanse of his chest, his arms holding me fast, a palm rubbing my back in firm, vertical strokes.
My face was still tingling, and I was so helpless, and I realized he was asking me a question, something about school, something in a low, conversational tone that was still rough and cool, but warmer than I’d ever heard it.
He’d asked again about my majors, I thought.
“Art history was actually my uncle’s idea,” I mumbled. I was too disoriented not to let my cheek rest on his shoulder. My legs were draped over his thigh and my heels pressed into the taut leather of the bench. My bottom was planted right in his lap. Something about that felt right. Good. Like Mark was a chair made especially for me.
“It was your uncle’s idea,” Mark repeated, still stroking my back and cuddling me. His voice was so nice. Feeling him hold me was nice. I was floating.
“He wants me to work for him after I graduate.” And then I stopped. Even floating, I knew I shouldn’t have said that. I was supposed to have switched to art history because it fit a deep interest of mine, not because a career in assessing religious art and antiquities would be an excellent cover for the real work Mortimer wanted me to do.
But thankfully, Mark didn’t seem to notice anything unusual about what I’d said. It wasn’t so odd anyway, right? Lots of young people went to work for family members after college. It was only my uncle’s position that made it atypical.
“Why did you decide to stay at home instead of living on campus?” Mark asked. “Or getting your own place?”
It was small talk, meant to soothe. He was helping me come back into my own body.
It was working.
“There didn’t seem to be much point,” I said. My fingers and toes still tingled, but my lips and cheeks no longer did. “The penthouse is much quieter, and I only spend as much time on campus as I have to.”
“The point would be having a semblance of a college experience,” Mark said. He was still rubbing my back. It was warm. Nice. I wasn’t sure anyone had held me this close for this long in years. My mother had been the last, maybe.
“Like you mentioned earlier, I’m hardly a typical college girl. And anyway, what does that even mean,a college experience? Drinking with strangers? Having sex with them? Would you really prefer that?”
Mark’s hands briefly tightened against me and then relaxed. It happened so quickly that I almost thought I’d imagined it. But I knew I hadn’t.
I am possessive by nature.
“I can’t say that I would,” he said calmly. “Although I do not expect your fidelity until we are married.”
I should have felt relief then—not that I had any plans on utilizing that freedom—but there was something deliberate about his choice of words. “You don’t expect it…but maybe you would still like it?”
His chest moved underneath me. He’d lifted his shoulder in a shrug I couldn’t see. “There’s no end to what I would like, Isolde. I learned a long time ago to put some reasonable limits on what I ask of people, because otherwise I will ask the world of them.”
