It turned out there were things I didn’t know, things that would surprise me. That the first touch of his lips would draw me in so much that I forgot to imagine what I looked like from the outside looking in, forgot everything except the old instinct to close the distance between us. That he would be so hungry for me he’d groan, a Jamie sound I’d never catalogued. That when I scored my fingers through his hair, his knees would buckle, forcing us to stagger to the couch, my mouth branding his skin until we both went up in flames.
I expected the flicker of worry about what exactly I was doing, but I didn’t anticipate how fast it would flee when he trained his eyes on me, a silent question answered with a nod that sent his fingers skimming under my dress, lifting it over my head. I didn’t expect I would shiver when I pushed him to his knees on the floor, when he kissed each purple bruise on my body and sent a frisson of pain through me, when his hot mouth moved down my bare stomach, when he gripped my knees, spread my legs, and kissed through my panties.
I couldn’t have known the warmth of his breath, that smart mouth put to different uses, would ignite such a hunger in me, a need that had me pulling him up and shoving him back onto the couch. How quickly he knew what I wanted, how obedient when my hands climbed the column of his throat and squeezed.
I’ll confess I had imagined it would feel like home in his arms: Jamie, the boy from growing up. But what I never saw coming—what I didn’t even know to expect—was the feeling when I slid over him, seizing his chin to catch his eyes, sinking down until he shuddered and my heart unleashed, beating through every inch of my body. The feeling as I moved my hands over his neck, his breath coming when I willed it, his eyes wide but willing, giving himself over. That he would whisper, “Hurt me if you want to,” and what that would unlock, the capacity of my desire bottomless as always, but the shape it could take, the things I could want… I swear to god, I didn’t know.
***
Jamie wrapped an arm around me, tucking me into his chest. He exhaled, his breath falling into rhythm with mine. I stared at the angry handprint on his neck. Long, elegant fingers, like a piano player’s.
“Tell me a story,” he said.
I pressed my cheek against his side. “Really? That easy?”
His eyes dropped to my face. They rested there a moment before he said, “Come on, Shay. You know you never had to beg.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Transgressions Episode 705, interview transcript: Shay Deroy, Sept. 18, 2022 （unabridged） SHAY DEROY: I know which story to tell you.
（Rustling.）
JAMIE KNIGHT: A happy one this time?
SHAY: You tell me at the end.
（Silence.）
When I turned seventeen, I became obsessed with watching myself in the mirror. I had this full-length in my room, and I would close the door, turn on music, and stand in front of it for hours, bending my arms and legs like a ballerina, examining my curves. I’d take off my clothes and arrange myself on my bed, arching my back, cupping my breasts, pouting. It sounds silly, but I’d look at the way my ribs caved into my stomach and think, This must be what it means to be beautiful.
JAMIE: Hmm.
SHAY: What?
JAMIE: I can picture it, is all.
SHAY: Me in front of the mirror?
JAMIE: Yes. Falling half in love.
SHAY: I wanted to see myself the way strangers did. This one night, at the restaurant, a waiter had said, “Everyone wants you to seat them because you look like Gene Tierney.” I thought he was saying I looked like a man, but it turned out she was this old Hollywood actress. I stared at pictures of her on Wikipedia and thought maybe I really have no idea what people see when they look at me.
JAMIE: The restaurant was the Red Lodge, right?