Page 52 of Deep End

“Then why?”

“You don’t have to tell me. It’s not a deal-breaker. But you clearly have triggers, and understanding what happened might help me steer away.”

Lukas doesn’t need the whole story for that. But he and I have already been so open with each other, I don’t mind him knowing.And, I have no reason to be embarrassed. So I square my shoulders, hold his eyes, and try to be as factual as possible. “Over the years, my dad became increasingly abusive of both me and my stepmother. By the end, he was tracking all our movements, monitoring our interactions, isolating us from the rest of the world and from each other. He’d belittle us. Criticize us. Yell for no reason. He was financially controlling. I’m not sure how it got so bad, only that it was gradual. Barb and I were both very good at pretending that it was all normal, and that Dad was just having a string of bad days. Then, when I was thirteen, Barb picked me up from school. I began crying and begging her to not take me home, and she decided to put an end to it. She left Dad, managed to get custody, put us both in therapy.” Years of terror, condensed into a few dozen words. Years in whichmy sole happy place was diving. “I can usually work through my triggers. I don’t like raised voices, but it’s not a hard limit. And I actuallylikebeing handled roughly. Control. Discipline. As long as it’s within specific contexts.” I can tell from his eyes that he understands what I mean. It makes sense in his gut as much as in mine. “The one thing Dad did . . .” I look away. “Degradation kink is a thing, and I’m never going to judge . . . but if you want to call me ugly, or disgusting, or worthless—”

“Jesus, Scarlett.”

“—then we’re probably not going to be able to—”

“Hey.” He lifts my chin. “Look at me.”

I am, I want to say. Except, I lowered my gaze to my feet without realizing it.

“I’m not interested in demeaning you in any way. Okay?” In his eyes I find no disappointment—just a promise. He doesn’t let go until I nod, and once I’m free, I swallow. Take my phone out of my pocket. Gently, hoping he won’t notice my trembling hands, I pop its case off.

When he sees the piece of paper lodged inside, he smiles faintly. “Guarding it closely, huh?”

I drop it on the table, next to his. I’m not sure how to explain the sticky, toe-curling, happiness-creating heat that spreads through my limbs whenever I think about the list beingthere. All my secrets. All his questions. The potential for this improbable, dizzying, sharp thing between us, never too far from my body.

“How do you want to do this?” I ask, a little too breathless to sound businesslike. “Do you want to put them next to each other and compare, or . . . ?”

He reaches out and grabs mine, stretching it out before I’m even done formulating the thought, eyes scanning horizontally across the page. There’s nothing jerky or hurried about his movements, but watching him feels like a natural disaster, something unstoppable that I’m allowed to witness but not interfere with.

I rock on my heels as he reads, the little room shrinking around us. The air swelters, as hot as my cheeks.

Pick his list up, I tell myself.And read it. Even out the playing field. But I can’t. It’s the same brand of bloodcurdling, muscle-freezing paralysis that seizes me when I attempt an inward dive.

What if—it doesn’t work.

What if—I mess up again.

What if—I’m being given a chance, and I squander it.

What if I’m not good enough.

“I haven’t—” I fidget with my hair. “I experimented a bit with my ex, but haven’t done much of this stuff.” He knows. There is a column on the sheet dedicated to that, which I filled. I completed my assignment. Yet I power through. “There are a couple of things that . . . They’d depend on how you want to approach them. I put asterisks next to them.” He lowers the paper and stares at me from over it, unsettlingly undecipherable. I shift on my feet. “And I couldn’t understand what—”

I don’t get to finish that sentence. Because Lukas Blomqvist takes a long step, pushes me into the wall, and kisses me.

CHAPTER 23

IFIRST FEEL IT IN MY SHOULDER BLADES, SUDDENLY PRESSEDagainst the wall with too much strength. The back of my head could have suffered the same fate, but Lukas’s hand cushioned the impact, one palm wrapped against my nape as the other curls around my jaw.

It starts simple enough—lips crushed together, his chest as flush to me as it can physically be, given the differences in our heights. When his tongue brushes against mine, there’s an explosion at the base of my spine. Tentative, testing, gentle.

Then, instantly, not at all.

All at once it’s filthy. Deep. Sharp. Lukas’s lips are hot. His tongue is hot. His fingers, framing my face, are hot.

My entire body is on fire.

He hears the catch of my breath and takes advantage of it, tilting my head farther, an impossible angle that allows him to control the kiss, to lick inside my mouth and leave no place untouched.

It’s all-consuming. My mind whites out. I loop my arms around his neck, fuzzy brained and blurry edged, and he finds a way to pull me even closer. He rumblessomething, but it’s not in English. So I focus on his hand traveling down my backbone, palm wide, like hewants to use all of it to feel me, won’t miss a single inch of flesh. It reaches the place where the hem of my shirt brushes against my lower back, gently lifts it, and his skin finally—finally—touches mine.

I fist my nails in his shoulder.

A whiny sound crawls up my throat. A needy grunt punches out of his.

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