I’m afraid to. I don’t fear Jonas, I fear my reaction to Jonas. Like I’m going to become a stage-five clinger if he shows me the smallest amount of kindness. Yeah, when I’m in a drought, I am fucking pathetic.
Like most men, Briggs started off concerned about my pleasure, and I appreciated that and reciprocated in return. He had a healthy appetite like I did. Once he started using, he became less and less considerate and more dominant to the point it was nothing more than sexual abuse. People say “walk away,” but you know what? When it’s happening to you? It’s just not that fucking easy.
However, when I did try and walk away and that ended badly for me, I changed. So at this point in my life, I’m what you call gun shy. Past partners were just that, the past. I can hardly remember names or faces anymore. In the deepest part of my heart though, I know Jonas Rafe is different, and that’s what throws me off balance.
We pull into his driveway and I find myself very self-conscious. I wasn’t lying when I said I’m average, I am. He, though, isn’t average. He’s so far above average it isn’t funny. He cuts the engine and my panic grows. Does he expect me to just give it up when we walk in? Would I disappoint him? Fucking Briggs. He isn’t even in my life and he’s still messing it up from a distance. I’m questioning myself again, and it’s pissing me off.
Jonas gets out and I know to wait. He always opens my door for me and helps me down. He puts his hand on the small of my back and leads me to his front door. From the exterior, it’s a typical Detroit brick bungalow, but when he opens the door my jaw must have dropped, because he called me on it.
“Like what you see?”
“I do.”
I stand there almost frozen. My mind is working out each and every detail. The carved mantle on the fireplace, the original oak floors, and even the amazing artwork adorning the walls. Say what you want about Detroit, but no other place rivals these antique homes. Not a one.
“That mantle was carved by my grandpa; he was the original owner of this house.”
“He was a talented man. How did you get it? The house, I mean.”
“He left it to me when he died; I’ve had it for about eleven years now. He was a cop, too.”
“You even kept the original doorknobs. This is amazing, Jonas. You’ve managed to keep the bones of this home sacred. He would have been proud.”
“Let’s hit the kitchen; it’s my favorite room.”
He leads me into the kitchen, which is typically the smallest area in these homes. I never understood why, because back then people had larger families and needed the space to cook. What do I know, anyway? I’m just speculating. I’m an only child, and the only one ever cooking in our kitchen was me.
But I appreciate a good eating space, and apparently so does he, because he turned this into what I consider a chef’s dream kitchen. He has stainless steel everything, and it suits him perfectly. He kept the original cabinets, brass, tile floor, and countertops, but refurbished them all. The end result was a kitchen that looked twice its size. He has stained glass hanging from the windows and a wicked breakfast bar and wine cooler. To say I’m impressed is an understatement.
“Based on this kitchen, you must be an accomplished cook.”
“I do okay.” He blushes. “It’s just me, so it’s never fine dining. You like it?”
“I love it. You did this yourself, didn’t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Every detail, every inch of this kitchen screams your name.”
I notice right away he looks uncomfortable about something I just said, but for the life of me I don’t know what it is.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No.”
“Then why do you look like you’re in pain?”
“I guess this would be a good time for me to start talking.”
“Why not just answer the question? If I said something I shouldn’t have, I’d like to know about it.”
“That’s just
Like most men, Briggs started off concerned about my pleasure, and I appreciated that and reciprocated in return. He had a healthy appetite like I did. Once he started using, he became less and less considerate and more dominant to the point it was nothing more than sexual abuse. People say “walk away,” but you know what? When it’s happening to you? It’s just not that fucking easy.
However, when I did try and walk away and that ended badly for me, I changed. So at this point in my life, I’m what you call gun shy. Past partners were just that, the past. I can hardly remember names or faces anymore. In the deepest part of my heart though, I know Jonas Rafe is different, and that’s what throws me off balance.
We pull into his driveway and I find myself very self-conscious. I wasn’t lying when I said I’m average, I am. He, though, isn’t average. He’s so far above average it isn’t funny. He cuts the engine and my panic grows. Does he expect me to just give it up when we walk in? Would I disappoint him? Fucking Briggs. He isn’t even in my life and he’s still messing it up from a distance. I’m questioning myself again, and it’s pissing me off.
Jonas gets out and I know to wait. He always opens my door for me and helps me down. He puts his hand on the small of my back and leads me to his front door. From the exterior, it’s a typical Detroit brick bungalow, but when he opens the door my jaw must have dropped, because he called me on it.
“Like what you see?”
“I do.”
I stand there almost frozen. My mind is working out each and every detail. The carved mantle on the fireplace, the original oak floors, and even the amazing artwork adorning the walls. Say what you want about Detroit, but no other place rivals these antique homes. Not a one.
“That mantle was carved by my grandpa; he was the original owner of this house.”
“He was a talented man. How did you get it? The house, I mean.”
“He left it to me when he died; I’ve had it for about eleven years now. He was a cop, too.”
“You even kept the original doorknobs. This is amazing, Jonas. You’ve managed to keep the bones of this home sacred. He would have been proud.”
“Let’s hit the kitchen; it’s my favorite room.”
He leads me into the kitchen, which is typically the smallest area in these homes. I never understood why, because back then people had larger families and needed the space to cook. What do I know, anyway? I’m just speculating. I’m an only child, and the only one ever cooking in our kitchen was me.
But I appreciate a good eating space, and apparently so does he, because he turned this into what I consider a chef’s dream kitchen. He has stainless steel everything, and it suits him perfectly. He kept the original cabinets, brass, tile floor, and countertops, but refurbished them all. The end result was a kitchen that looked twice its size. He has stained glass hanging from the windows and a wicked breakfast bar and wine cooler. To say I’m impressed is an understatement.
“Based on this kitchen, you must be an accomplished cook.”
“I do okay.” He blushes. “It’s just me, so it’s never fine dining. You like it?”
“I love it. You did this yourself, didn’t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Every detail, every inch of this kitchen screams your name.”
I notice right away he looks uncomfortable about something I just said, but for the life of me I don’t know what it is.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No.”
“Then why do you look like you’re in pain?”
“I guess this would be a good time for me to start talking.”
“Why not just answer the question? If I said something I shouldn’t have, I’d like to know about it.”
“That’s just
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