I smile, and hook my finger over the first button on his shirt. “You know what I mean. Have you ever—”
“Shh, babygirl. This time is about us.”
I lapse into silence, listening to his heartbeat. There’s that ache again, the burn in the center of my chest. I know what it means this time. I’m falling in love with him. It frightens me because I don’t know if this is part of our deal or whether I’m overstepping some mark. He’s intense with me, and sweet with me, but he’s never been romantic with me. I can’t begin to find the words to tell him how I feel.
He’s able to take away all of my other fears, putting them on his shoulders so that I can be free and happy. But I don’t see how this worry is one he’ll be able to take away.
Chapter Nine
“So, um, my parents want you to come for dinner.”
We’re sitting on Rufus’s couch. My feet are in his lap and he’s painting my toenails purple. He’s surprisingly good at it for someone who’s never done it before.
When my parents mentioned that they want us over on our next day off I didn’t know what to say. Part of it is worry that it’s too couple-y for us. Too normal. On the way to work I became all wistful, for the first time wishing I had the sort of boyfriend other girls did, where dinner with the parents is a natural part of the relationship. There are no guidelines for having a dom. He might laugh at me, or tell me I’m silly.
The other part of it is terror that he will say yes.
Rufus looks up and grins. “You look like you’re about to throw up, kitten. Do you think I won’t be able to behave myself?”
The terror suddenly expands. “Of course not. You’ll be the perfect, affable gentleman and charm the pants off them, but they’re going to be able to see it written all over my face. They’re going to know.”
“Know what, kitten?” he says, eyes wide, mimicking my innocent-little-girl look.
“What we do,” I wail, and press my face into a couch cushion.
He scoffs. “Oh, please. I doubt they’ve even heard of what we do. Or if they have, then maybe they’re into it themselves, so who cares.”
I lift my head, my face a rictus of horror. “Don’t even joke about that, they’re my parents.”
“Hold still, I’m going outside the lines. Daddy’s not as good at coloring in as you are.”
I shudder. “Oh, god. What if I accidentally call you daddy in front of them?”
“What’s my name?”
“Rufus.”
“There you are, then. No danger.” He slants me a look. “But who cares if you do?”
My embarrassment goes nuclear. “Oh my god, Rufus, you can’t say things like that. I would die. I would literally, physically crumple up and die. I’d be disowned. I’d be flayed and quartered and hung out to dry.”
He winces at my screeching. “Calm down, babygirl. It’s just a word. You’re not a murderer.”
“I would be, because they would die, too!”
He caps the nail polish and turns to me, placing one hand just above my knee, digging his fingers in. His eyes have turned that flinty that’s-quite-enough-young-lady color. “Look at me. You are not going to accidentally call me daddy in front of your parents. They are not going to be able to read anything in your face.” His grip on my leg tightens. “We will have a nice, friendly dinner, and then I will go home and they will tell you how much they like your settled, mature boyfriend, and how good they think he is for you. All right?”
I take a deep breath. Most of the tightness has disappeared from my chest. “Are you sure?”
“Sweetheart, I know so. Take another deep breath.”
I do, and I feel better.
“All right?”
“Yes, daddy.”
“Good girl.” He returns to painting my toenails but he’s watching me out of the corner of his eye.