When he came to me at four-thirty in the morning, he didn’t even have to wake me up. I had been up most of the night except for several catnaps from which I woke up startled and disoriented, in a cold sweat with my heart going a mile a second.

He usually slid under the sheets and scooped me to his chest. Instead he sat on the bedcovers. I rolled over and faced him.

“Everything all right?”

He stared at me. His white hair reflected the moonlight coming in through the window. “I’m in a mood, Teresa. Don’t fight me. It won’t end well.”

Okay, I thought. He’s feeling mean. Maybe that was what he needed to get the job done. To feel mean. If that was the case, it was okay with me. I wanted him to feel mean. I wanted him to be mean and cruel and merciless and the biggest son of a bitch imaginable. Because when working with amoral, conscienceless beings, nice guys were toast. If I had to bear the brunt of his cruelty in order for him to get the job done, so be it.

I turned around and supported myself on all fours, waiting for the pain. He hiked up my Manson girl dress, and then he growled out, “I hate this fucking thing.” He ripped it in two along one of the seams. Once naked, I closed my eyes and felt my whole body go tense.

He did nothing for a moment. I could hear him breathe. I sensed his sweaty presence. I felt him grip the nape of my neck with his massive hand. But then he released his long, spindly fingers and I felt them travel down my spine, vertebra by vertebra, the tips dancing over each bone as if he were reading braille.

When the sex came, it was normal … assured but gentle—so much so that after it was over, I found myself aroused.

Afterward, he said, “Sit up against the headboard.”

I did what he said. He came toward me. I waited for him to make a move, to loop his hand around my neck and bring me to him. When he didn’t, I said, “What do you want, baby?”

“Don’t close your eyes, Terry,” he told me. “Look at me when you do it, angel. Look at me.” Telling me: I’m the one you’re doing it to. I’m the one in control.

Anything he wanted. When he climaxed, he leaned against the wall, breathing hard, his eyes closed, his head tilted toward the ceiling. I waited for him to disengage. He did a few moments later, then he nodded to me. My signal that I could get up and head to the bathroom. I brushed my teeth, rinsed my mouth, and stepped into a steamy shower.