He wouldn’t come after me, I think. Mostly I believe this. Jonah swore that he would never force a woman against her will. When he said it, there was something about his voice—something raw, something real. I trust my instincts enough to know Jonah was telling the truth.
But what if he thought he wasn’t forcing me? He knows I fantasize about rape. He said he wants to give me my fantasy. Would Jonah break in, thinking I was waiting for him? We talked about acting everything out. Breaking in could be part of that. I want to think he wouldn’t take it this far—but with something like this, the lines between fantasy and reality could get blurred much too easily. If I protested, even if I fought, Jonah might believe that was only part of the game.
He said the ball was in my court. Surely that means the next move is up to me.
Why am I thinking about the next move? I turn over in bed, restless beneath the thin sheet. This idea is insane. I told Jonah as much. When I said no, I meant it, and that’s the end.
What I don’t know is whether Jonah accepts that this isn’t going any further. Whether a guy who gets off fantasizing about rape can even understand No. Whether I can trust him. This man asked me to be completely vulnerable to him, to put myself completely in his power.
And he’s already proved he won’t misuse my powerlessness.
Jonah’s had me vulnerable and at his mercy before—last Sunday night, when he pulled over to help me with my flat tire. We were out in the middle of nowhere. When I told him that I had help coming, he had to know it was a lie. He’s a big man, obviously strong. If he’d wanted to take me against my will, he could have done it. I’m not sure even that lug wrench would have saved me.
Now I know his fantasies were just like mine. He saw me. He desired me. He envisioned pulling me into the back of his car, pinning me under his weight—
But he didn’t. Jonah had me exactly where he wanted me, and all he did was help me out and send me on my way.
Does that mean I could trust him after all?
I don’t know. I couldn’t know unless we actually tried this.
Which is crazy. Unhealthy. Possibly even dangerous. And it gets me hotter than anything else ever has.
I glance over at the window nearest my bed. That’s one I don’t have to worry about locking; over the past eighty years or so, the window’s been painted shut so many times that it’s practically part of the wall. Nobody’s coming through there, not without slicing himself to shreds on broken glass.
That’s what makes it safe to imagine Jonah just outside.
In my mind, the window slides open for him easily. I’m lying here in my skimpy tank top, breathing hard, paralyzed by fear. I imagine Jonah sliding through as easily as a cat burglar, his feet barely making a sound as he makes contact with the floor and stands up, looming over me. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. In this fantasy, I know that I have to do whatever he says. What he wants to do to me, I have to take.
Don’t, whispers the rational part of my brain, the part that knows I shouldn’t go here even in my own mind. My rape fantasies about faceless strangers—those are one thing. Thinking about Jonah, the man who wants to tie me up and take me down for real: That’s a whole new level of fucked-up.
But I seem to have reached that level at last.
I wriggle out of my underwear, and my hand steals between my legs. As my fingers start circling, I close my eyes, the better to dream of Jonah standing over me.
He has a belt, a rope, something, and he winds it around my wrists. He ties the other end to one of the bedposts, then tugs my body down so that my arms are stretched above my head. I whimper in fear. It just makes him smile. He pulls off my panties, pushes my legs open so wide it almost hurts. I hear the purr of his zipper. It’s too dark for me to see his cock, but I feel the rigid head pushing against me—into me—
In my mind I keep replaying that, the moment he plunges inside, the first shock of penetration, Jonah’s satisfied groan, my own desperate cry. Over and over again, the first time every time, as fast as he could actually thrust—and then I come so hard it makes me dizzy. Everything is blurred and humming, and I know nothing but the pulse of my cunt as it contracts, wanting the man who isn’t there.
As soon as I can breathe again, I say, “Oh, shit.”
If just imagining Jonah Marks playing this role for me gets me off that hard, what would the reality be like? I don’t want to find out.
Or maybe I do.
Either way, I’m not going to be able to stop thinking about Jonah anytime soon. So much for sleep.
? ? ?
My entire weekend goes something like this:
Get up, eat breakfast, exercise. Resolve not to think about Jonah so much today.
Get some work done in the studio.
Break for lunch; head home for sandwich. Start thinking about Jonah.