Every word hurts. Every word pulsates through me. And yet, I ask: “I told you that I loved you, and you said…” I pull back to see his reaction. “You said that it would pass.”

“I did.”

“How did that work out for you?”

A smile tugs at his lips. “I said that it would pass for you, Maya. I was never under the illusion that it would so much as fade, for me. And I was prepared for it.” A heartbeat. “I still am.”

I gasp, incredulous. “Why? I’m standing in front of you, telling you that for me the last ten months never even happened—”

“Maybe it just wasn’t long enough.” He seems lost. “And you need more time.”

I want to bite him. I want to sink my incisors and my canines into him and make him bleed. I want it so bad that my hands and my shoulders are shaking, and honestly fuck these games. “Do you want me to leave?”

“It would be best if—”

“Not the question I—”

“No, Maya. I never want you to be anywhere but with me.”

My heart stops. Restarts with a riot. The cautious hope for a breakthrough. I force myself to breathe evenly, and make my decision.

I lay my hand against his pecs. Run it down his smooth skin, curling it around the elastic of his sweats. My meaning is: If I stay, this is happening. If I stay, I’m not going to let you pretend that we’re good friends reconnecting. And Conor has always been good at understanding what I’m trying to say.

But then he tells me: “If you stay…You’re in charge.”

That, I didn’t expect. “Are you one of those CEOs who enjoy doing their dominatrix’s laundry?”

Soft laughter. “Would that be an issue?”

“No.” I think about it. “It might be fun.”

“I’m happy to help you with your laundry, but…” His hands cup both sides of my head. “I need you to decide, because nothing has changed. You’re still younger and less experienced, and—”

I have no interest in listening to him rehash his greatest hits, and I don’t mind being in control. I don’t mind taking his hand and leading him to the couch. I don’t mind putting my hands on his bare shoulders and pushing him down to a sitting position. I don’t mind taking my clothes off while he watches, legs spread wide like the men on the bus, eyes darker than ever.

The pink sheer panties, I decide after I see the hitch in his throat, are allowed to stay. “Feel free to tell me how pretty I am,” I tease as my shirt slips to the ground. But Conor remains silent, lips parted, the muscles in his chest shifting with every breath. The ridge of his erection strains his sweats, a wet patch already darkening the front.

I straddle his lap, but he doesn’t touch me. He’s so tense, I wonder if he’ll shatter in a million pieces. When I move forward and lick his clavicle, a shiver reverberates through him. “Do you think about me?” I murmur against his skin. “When you are doing this with other people?”