Page 47 of You Make Me Feel
The way he says it makes my chest tighten. “Yeah, well thank you. For stepping in. Though as I said, I would have handled it.”
He runs his thumb along his jaw. “Why wereyouthere?” he asks. “Were you looking for what he was offering?”
There’s an edge to his words. They almost cut me.
“I was trying to get out of my comfort zone.” There, not a lie. “I’ve spent the last few years keeping myself safe. I’mtired of it. I just want…” I want to feel alive. I want to feel wanted.
I want you to do that.
“Yeah, well a bar full of finance assholes on a Friday night probably isn’t the way to do that.” He clears his throat. “And nor is an app. Not the kind you downloaded anyway.”
“How do you know what app I downloaded?”
He tips his head to the side. “I don’t. But I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Tinder.”
No, it wasn’t.
“Here’s the thing, Sadie,” he says, his voice still low. The glow of the lamp makes his face look even more chiseled than usual. “Apps like that. Guys who want… to do the things you want to do. They’re a fucking tightrope. You could get very, very hurt. And I don’t want that.”
“Why?” I ask. It’s a genuine question.
“Because we’re supposed to be friends. Remember? You didn’t want me to ignore you. Didn’t want me to treat you any differently? So as friends, I’m telling you, you’re playing with fire.”
“You’ve been ignoring me all week,” I say, though I know he’s only doing what I asked. I just feel so… I don’t know. Exposed.
He starts to laugh. There’s no humor in it though. “You made it clear you didn’t want me to check in with you. Didn’t want me to message you. I’ve been trying to do what you asked. Listen to your cues, follow your lead.”
I try not to wince, even though he’s right. I was the one who walked away on the beach. The one who replied to his messages with one word.
“When you made your profile on the app, did you say if you were looking for CNC?” heasks me.
“What’s CNC?” I ask him.
It’s his turn to wince. Like I’m embarrassingly naïve. “Baby, they’re gonna eat you alive.”
“Then tell me,” I say, frowning. “What’s CNC?”
He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His wrist flexes as he runs a hand through his hair, and I can’t help following the movement. The air between us feels charged, too big for both of us.
“CNC means consensual non-consent,” he says, his voice lower now, rougher. “As in, you need to be extremely explicit in what you’re consenting to when you match with somebody on an app like that. Reading about it in books isn’t the same as living it. Not everybody is a good guy.”
He looks up, eyes dark, and I swear I feel that gaze burning my skin.
“As in I wouldn’t get a say in what they do?” I ask him.
His gaze locks with mine. “Possibly. Which is why you need to be clear about what you want. Some of these men will want to hurt you because they get off on it. And they won’t give a shit about whatyouwant.” His voice softens, like he really is worried about me.
And it hits me somewhere deep in my chest. “Have you done that? Hurt somebody?”
He frowns. “I bit you.”
But I liked that. I find myself blushing again, remembering the sharp sting of his teeth. “Anything else?” God, he’s so much more experienced than I am.
“No. I’m not really into pain.” He lets out an exhale, running his fingers through his hair.
“But you’ve done that before?” I ask, so stupidly curious it isn’t funny. “Consensual non consent?”
He tips his head to the side, looking at me like he’strying to read my thoughts. “I thought I was the one asking the questions here.”
