Page 31 of The Equation of Us
“Before we start, we should talk about…” I trail off, not quite sure how to articulate it.
“Boundaries,” he supplies. “Limits. What you’re comfortable with.”
I nod, relieved he understands.
“Tell me what you want, Nora.” His voice drops slightly. “And what you don’t want.”
I take a breath. “I want… what we talked about at the lookout point. I want to let go. To not be in charge for once.”
“And what does that mean to you?”
The question catches me off guard. I’ve been so focused on the abstract concept that I haven’t fully defined it for myself.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “I’ve never done this before.”
Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or satisfaction. “Never surrendered control to someone else?”
“Not like this.” I fidget with the hem of my sweater. “I mean, I’ve had sex before, obviously. But not… not with someone who…”
“Who takes charge,” he finishes for me.
“Yes.”
Dean moves closer, not touching me yet, but close enough that I have to lift my chin to maintain eye contact.
“Here’s how this works,” he says, his voice steady and calm. “I’ll tell you what to do. You decide if you want to do it. If you don’t, you say no. I stop. No questions, no pressure.”
The simplicity of it is reassuring.
“And if I want to stop completely?” I ask.
“Then you say ‘stop,’ and we stop. Everything stops.” His eyes hold mine. “I’ll never do anything you don’t want. But I won’t ask permission for every little thing either. That’s the point—you trust me to read you, to know what you need.”
My heart is racing now, nervous energy coursing through me.
“Do you think you can do that?” he asks. “Trust me?”
I consider it. Trust doesn’t come easily to me. I’ve been self-reliant for too long, responsible for too much. But there’s something about Dean—his steadiness, his careful attention, the way he watches me like he’s memorizing every reaction—that makes me want to try.
“Yes,” I say finally. “I can try.”
Something shifts in his expression then, a subtle change that transforms his entire demeanor. His shoulders straighten slightly, his chin lifts, and his eyes—those winter-gray eyes—darken with intent.
“Come here,” he says, the words quiet but unmistakably a command.
My body responds before my mind can analyze it. I move toward him, stopping just inches away.
“Closer,” he murmurs.
I step forward until we’re almost touching, the heat of his body radiating against mine.
He lifts a hand slowly and brushes a strand of hair back from my face. The touch is gentle but deliberate, his fingertips grazing my cheek.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, his voice low. “And then I’m going to tell you what I want from you tonight. Okay?”
“Okay,” I whisper, the word barely audible.
His hand slides to the back of my neck, firm but not rough, and he pulls me toward him. The kiss is different from our first one at the lookout point—more controlled, less frantic. He takes his time, his lips moving against mine with deliberate precision, like he’s learning the shape of my mouth.
