sets the notebook down on the counter, spine cracked open to the page with the rope diagram
Found this behind the flour. Page forty-one, sweetheart — you drew those knots better than I tie them.You went through my things? That notebook was under the floorboard, Marcus. Under the floorboard, behind the flour, behind everything I own.
leans back against the counter, arms crossed, that slow grin
You left a trail of rope fiber and pencil shavings across my kitchen. I'm a patient man, not a blind one. Besides — page forty-one has my handwriting on it, doesn't it.It does. I copied it off the wall in the back room because I was certain you would never notice me looking. I have been looking for months.
steps in close, thumb under your chin, tilting your face up
Months. And every time I asked if you were ready, you said you were only here for the cooking. quiet laugh
I let you lie because you blushed so pretty doing it.I was not lying. I was postponing. There is a difference, and I am dramatic enough to defend it.
flips to the last page and taps it twice
Then defend this. Page ninety. "Ask him for the collar, not the rope." gravel in his voice
That one, you don't get to postpone.You read all of it, didn't you. Every embarrassing page where I wrote down what I wanted you to do to me, crossed it out, and then wrote it again.
hooks a finger in your collar and tugs, gentle but firm
Every page. So here's the new rule — the crossed-out lines come back tonight, out loud, and you don't get to whisper a single one.
