Page 19 of Devil in Disguise
“Well, yeah,” Dyma said, “but that’s because we have uteruses, not because we don’t have any aggression and are just nurturing beings, whereas men have to go out and …”
“Play football?” Owen asked. “Let me guess. Next thing I hear, you’re going to have taken up boxing. UFC, maybe. I’m going to see you on Pay Per View, named something like ‘Nitro,’ and it’ll be my fault. Or maybe Harlan’s, because you’re proving your point about benevolent sexism.”
“Nope,” she said. “Well, maybe. Do you think U-Dub has boxing classes in their rec center? Knowing how to box would be amazing.”
“Kickboxing, maybe,” Owen said. “Like I said. Not as useful as you’d think, but you learn to move fast and hit where you meant to, and if you focus on it, you’ll learn to hit harder, too. Muscle memory. Gotta know what to do without thinking. You’ll get there. That was way better than I thought you’d do.”
“Because Iamaggressive, that’s why,” she said, “and I’m not afraid to be. Most women are scared of getting hurt, or maybe scared of standing up for themselves, like it isn’t in their wheelhouse. By the time I’m fighting, though, I’m too mad to be scared.”
“So I shouldn’t worry about you?” he said.
“Of course you shouldn’t worry about me. I should worry aboutyou.Excuse me? Which one of us plays an incredibly dangerous contact sport? Which one has three-hundred-pound guys piling onto him? The question is, doIhave some benevolent sexism of my own. Why do I love watching you do it? Why is it still so hot? I shouldn’t think so. Football is an anachronistic celebration of the patriarchy, and not just that. It’s like—a celebration of men’sworstimpulses. Well, boxing’s worse, I guess. But football’s close to the worst.”
“Thought you just said you loved boxing,” Harlan said.
She sighed. “That’s the problem. I like doing it. I like watching Owen do it—football, I mean—and it’s hot, because, yeah, it’s so masculine. but I liked getting ultra-physical myself just now, too.” She told Owen, “Especially with you. Why are these things so confusing?”
“So somebody can write a sociology dissertation about them,” Harlan said. “And get tenure. I’m hitting the shower, and your mom’s made dinner. In a benevolently sexist way, probably.”
“Nope,” Dyma said, “because you cook, too. Besides, nurturing’s fine, as long as it’s not just one person doing all of it, like that’s their gender role. Come on, Annabelle. Let’s take a shower.”
She headed off, then turned around, came back, pulled Owen’s head down in the way that still made his heart rate leap, kissed him hard and deep, and kept her arm around his neck as she said, “Thanks for doing that. See, that wasnokind of sexism. That was empowering me to protect myself.Full points. And did I mention that I love you?” Which rattled him, and also meant that he didn’t get a chance to explain that she was right about football, but he loved it for exactly those reasons, whatever that said about aggression and dominance and the bone-deep thrill of battle. That those things called to something deep inside him, and they always had.
And, yeah, that it was hot having her launch herself at him. Even if it was just to try to kick him in the balls.
11
Not the Strap-On
By September,Owen had made a new rule. He could take off Dyma’s clothes, or at least reach under them. He wasn’t allowed to take off his own. He figured that as long as his zipper stayed up, he was good.
Well, notgood,exactly, because he hadn’t kissed and touched a girl in a car—or in his case, a pickup—in this kind of marathon session since he was sixteen. Eventhatyear,there’d been Madison Ogilvie, and he’d sure as hell let Maddie unzip him. You could say that he remembered the occasion. If anybody ever did an autopsy on his brain, they’d probably find that memory burned into his hippocampus.
He had a feeling Dyma was going to end up burned in there, too.
He was thinking about her as he got rid of his towel in the Colts’ visitor’s locker room in mid-September after the Devils had won the sort of offensive-line slugfest that your body remembered afterwards. His favorite kind of win: the kind you earned in the trenches. He was still flying high enough on adrenaline to barely notice the soreness as he got into his jeans and pulled his T-shirt over his head, and he wasn’t thinking about the long flight home, or getting into the ice bath, or tomorrow’s practice and the recovery session he’d do with his favorite physical therapist. He was thinking about dinner at Harlan’s tomorrow night, and how late he and Dyma would stay up afterwards.
Another thing that kept you from getting out of control: kissing the girl on her mom’s couch.
You know what was another substitute, though, for being able to do every dirty thing you could think of to the cutest, sassiest girl you’d ever known? Phone sex. Never his favorite thing, before. A pretty pale imitation, especially when you were never sure how much you were allowed to say. When you had somebody as uninhibited as Dyma at the other end of the line, though? Phone sex worked.
She’d done what she called “helping you get to sleep” last night, after which he’d managed to say, “Damn, girl. You’re dirty.”
“Well,” she’d pointed out, “sharing fantasies is highly recommended as a means to increase intimacy and lower barriers to communication.”
He’d barely been able to talk by this point, because it had been her turn to share, and holy hell, was Dyma willing toshare.He asked, “How are you coming up with this stuff? I hope you’re wiping your history, or your mom’s going to ban me from the house.”
“Oh, I’m not watching porn,” she said breezily. “Too much male gaze. I bought a couple of books—which are on my phone, not under my mattress or whatever you’re thinking, and plus, I suspect it’d be hard to shock my mom by this point. I know, crazy, right? But that’s what I’m betting. So anyway, I’ve checked out all these positions and props and things, especially from this one book that’s about pleasing a man, and then I just use my imagination. You know …” She hesitated.
Dymadidn’thesitate. “Uh-oh,” he said. “What?”
“Just … if webothread the books … there’s one that’s for couples. The idea is, you read different sections, and then you sort of … surprise each other.”
He said, “Get the strap-on idea out of your mind right now.”
“Aw,” she said, but she was laughing. “That’s a no? You’re supposed to be open to fantasy, Owen.”
“I’m open to fantasy. I’m just not open to penetration. Also,” he hurried on, “that’s pretty adventurous for a girl who’s never done any of it before.”
