will you possibly achieve the honesty that I require?” He let his gaze sharpen. “Because let’s be very clear. Honesty isn’t a suggestion. It’s a commandment you break at your peril.”
“Wait a minute. I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“Rory. Little one. You haven’t left.”
It seemed to occur to her that they were standing too close, then. That she was breathing too hard, her skin was too hot, and her nipples were poking hard against her oversize T-shirt—and worse, that he could see all of those things. She scrambled back a few feet and caught herself against the exposed brick wall behind her.
He made no move to follow her, and he could see that confused her.
“I’m not opposed to a sexual interaction,” she said after a moment, though every bit of her body language suggested that she wasn’t nearly as blasé as she sounded. “Necessarily.”
“I’m delighted to hear that.” Conrad watched the way the hand she’d shot out against the brick wall trembled. “But I generally require consent to be far more unambiguous. And enthusiastic. And occasionally documented.”
She shook her head at that, but sharpened her gaze on him as if that could keep her confusion at bay. He rather liked that she came to it naturally.
“But there are some things that you should know about me,” she told him, in the same lofty voice she’d used to lecture him on artisanal housecleaning, of all ridiculous things.
“Don’t worry too much about that,” he said. In what he liked to call his soothing voice. Not to be confused with his commanding voice. Though both usually had the same effect. “If I get my hands on you, I’ll know everything about you. Sooner or later.”
Her lips parted at that and it seemed to take her a long moment to shake it off. “First of all, I’m going to need you to respect my identity.”
“Which identity is this? An artist whose medium is bleach in a bathtub? An American who distinguishes herself by wandering around Paris dressed appallingly?”
She frowned, swaying on her feet like she couldn’t decide where to swing first.
“I’m pansexual,” she announced, and nodded, as if cosigning her own declaration.
“Again, you have my felicitations.”
“I’m pansexual for sure and probably demisexual, and—”
“Explain to me what these words mean to you,” Conrad said, interrupting her.
Her frown deepened. “What do you mean, what they mean to me? They have specific definitions.”
“Most things do. But what are those definitions? As you understand them.”
“I can be attracted to anyone, and am,” she threw at him. “I like all kinds of actors and actresses. But I only really enjoy sex with people I have feelings for.”
“You cannot possibly have feelings for me. You met me moments ago, while trespassing in my private area. What do we do if these definitions fail us?”
“I guess you could consider me het-curious.” She inclined her head like royalty, which made him want to do all manner of filthy, glorious things to her. She was that lovely. “That means I’m curious about the behavior of heterosexuals. Though I should assume that’s what you are?”
“Among other things,” he agreed, perilously close to laughing again.
“Well. Okay then.”
Conrad thrust his hands in his pockets and kept his gaze on her. “Everyone has a sexual identity, Rory. I like power differentials, personally.”
“Both ways?”
He smiled. “No. I like power games, I insist on obedience, and when I fuck, I’m always in charge.”
She...fluttered. There was no other word for it.
“And before you tell me how little that interests you, you should know that I can see how aroused you are,” he said quietly. “Arousal is not action, I grant you, but let’s try to be honest about it.”
“You can’t see that. You can’t see any of that.”
“I can. For example, the look on your face right now tells me that for all the many attractions you claim you’ve had to all and sundry—all on screens, I assume, given you mentioned their job descriptions—you haven’t had a lot in the way of decent lovers. Is that wrong?”
Rory blew out a breath. “What do you mean by a decent lover?”
“One that made you come,” he said dryly. “A lot.”
“I’m really more focused on intimacy.”
“So the answer is no, then.” Conrad shook his head. “How can you decide what your sexual identity is if you’ve never had good sex?”
“I’ve had great sex,” she retorted.
“Great sex without coming?” He lifted a shoulder, then dropped it. “What is that?”
“Just because you’re psychotically goal oriented doesn’t mean everyone is.”
“Rory. Sex is about orgasms, or you could