Page 72 of Altius
“Don’t worry about it.”
Owen’s back stiffened. “Why? Because I won’t be observing such details in person?”
I studied him, noting how his shoulders rolled back, expanding his chest. It was an unconscious display of dominance—a silent warning. He was ready to spar if I took issue with his attitude.
But what could we possibly have to argue about?
He and Morgan had resolved their miscommunication issue, and heat preparations were well underway. Owen had proven to be an eager, albeit somewhat anal-retentive facilitator-in-training, committed to understanding Morgan’s needs and preferences in intimate detail.
I should know—since I’d had to provide multiple lengthy, Owen-coded responses via email each day this week.
The man was almost as invested in the success of Morgan’s heat as I was. He even suggested our cover story, a ski trip to Vermont.
So, why the sudden sour grapes? He was a willing participant until now.
Realization struck me square between the eyes.
Owen wasn’t aparticipant. He was the facilitator.
That meant observing Morgan’s heat from a safe distance, ready to step in at a moment’s notice, without being able to touch her.
He was only allowed to solve problems and ensure her boundaries were respected unless Joaquin, Wyatt, Alijah, and I were absolutely drained and unanimously agreed to activate him as a last resort.
“Do we have a problem?” I asked.
Owen chose to turn the page rather than respond. “What constitutes a liberal amount of lubricant? They should have provided a frame of reference, like a quarter-sized amount. Or perhaps a large grape.”
“My rule of thumb is to use more than you think you need,” I said, watching him out of the corner of my eye as I drained my beer, “and then add some more on top of that. Very scientific and precise, I assure you.”
“How enlightening.” Owen flipped to the back, a reference section of his own making, containing a list of detailed rules he’demailed to us earlier in the week. “Should I add a new section: the mating habits of thepheromonum ammissarius?”
It took a few seconds for my brain to work out the translation—pheromone stud in bastardized Latin—but once it clicked, I couldn’t stop laughing.
The longer I guffawed, the tighter and flatter Owen’s mouth got, his expression increasingly peevish.
He adjusted his glasses and pronounced, “Your amusement is excessive.”
The scrape of his dominance against my skin tickled rather than chastised me. I doubled over, holding my stomach, and howled. “You—you—made a sex joke!”
“A mistake I’ll be sure not to repeat in the future,” he said, thumbing through a few more pages.
“Oh, man.” I flopped against the back of the couch, trying to catch my breath. “I needed that.”
It was true.
I felt lighter than I had since I first opened the confidential attachment Chantal had included with Morgan’s heat dossier, which outlined in infuriating detail what went wrong during her last heat.
My breath caught, replacing some of the weight I’d momentarily managed to dislodge. The lingering echo of my laughter now rebuked rather than rejoiced.
Heats are all fun and games until someone ignores the rules of engagement.
If a sexual partner asks for lube—use it. Don’t mock them. Or make them beg for it.
If they say penetration hurts, stop. They shouldn’t have to ask twice.
Pain.
For Morgan to admit sex hurt her, especially during a heat—the woman who classified migraines that would knock meout for days as a mere headache—meant it must have been excruciating.
