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“I’m a poor little rich girl with a history of drug abuse and mental illness, and I’ve got one of the best lawyers in London. Not even I know what I’m capable of. And you”—her eyes raked contemptuously over him—“you haven’t got a fucking clue.”
“Hell yeah. Nathaniel’s a total prude, so he’s not going to want to go to your basic sleazy kink club, is he? Which means it’ll be some Chelsea set, masks and rose gold cock rings, and invite-only bollocks.”
She laughed. “I’ve never had much patience for people like Hart. Self-loathing is such a masturbatory vice. But I’m starting to think he might have something a little special, after all.”
I completely agree. I'm over it, Caspian
“Why would you do that?” The easiest answer was because I love you. But while that was part of it, the truth was more complex. “Because this isn’t what you want and it isn’t what Nathaniel wants and it diminishes what I want. On top of which, it isn’t going to fix anything. Honestly, I don’t know what either of you were thinking.”
At that, I turned a death glare on Nathaniel. “What, so, like aversion therapy? Except for kink instead of queerness?
Burn.
“I’m not blind, Caspian, and I’m not stupid either. I know you’re still smoking. And I know you’re still sleeping with Arden.”
Oh shit
“I want to be with you. On this point at least, Nathaniel’s correct, it’s what I’ve always wanted.” God.
“You may have noticed I have a tendency to second-guess my desires. I’ve been afraid of them for so long that I find it almost impossible to accept that what I want might be what I should have.”
FINALLY
“despite the lack of a PowerPoint, you have presented a very strong case that I should, instead, listen to you. And believe you when you tell me that none of this really matters.” “So what does matter?” “That I’m desperately in love with you. And that, against all reason, you appear to…” I stared at him, wide-eyed and absurdly, frantically, heart-soaringly hopeful. “Say it. I need to hear you say it.” “You appear to…” He stumbled, a hand coming up to half conceal his mouth. “Arden, I’m not sure I can.” No way was I letting this go. “I…” “…you…you…love me too?”
“Don’t people call you Mr. Hart every day?” “Not the way you do.” I fluttered my lashes at him, unable to resist asking, “What way is that?” “As if…as if you want me to do very bad things to you.” “Well, I do want you to do very bad things to me.”
“Then you’ll have me for a long time,” I said. “Me and a really exceptional, queer-friendly, kink-friendly therapist.”
“As you wish.” Ack. Help. Melting. And all it took was a smile and a Princess Bride reference.
“I really like Hugo Weaving. If he wanted me that badly, it would present quite the dilemma.” “He’s not remotely suitable for you. He’s straight, for one thing, and he must be nearly sixty.” “So? I bet he’d let me call him Daddy.”
“Are you seriously telling me you would leave me for Hugo Weaving?” “Are you seriously telling me”—I gazed up at him, my tears lost to incredulity—“you’re jealous?” He had the self-awareness to blush. “No. Yes. That is, I’ve only just got you back. I’m not ready to countenance losing you to anyone.” “I guess I’ll stay with you, then.” I heaved a heavy sigh. “Hugo’s going to be so bummed.”
Are you kidnapping me?” I asked. “Because if you are…that’s hot.”
“Is it still kidnapping if the subject is enthusiastically consenting?” “Don’t ruin this for me.”
I gave a little skip. “Oh, I keep meaning to come here. Go to Portobello Market, and The Gate, and nose into all the weird little shops, and post endless Instas of myself eating biscotti and reading Sartre in quirky cafés.” “That’s”—Caspian seemed to be struggling not to smile—“quite a specific vision.” “Yeah. And I don’t even like Sartre.” “I see.” “Or biscotti.”
“Sure. Though since you normally get a chauffeur to take you to the bathroom, I’m beginning to think you’ve been infected by alien brain parasites. You haven’t been infected by alien brain parasites, have you?” “Not that I’m aware of.” He thought about it for a moment. “Although I suppose that’s what I’d say if I had been infected by alien brain parasites. They would want to protect themselves.”
“It doesn’t seem as if they’re the threatening kind of alien parasites. I mean, it’s not like they’ve mind-controlled the prime minister or the pope or someone.” “Excuse me, I’m very rich and quite powerful.”
He sighed. “I don’t like being angry with Dad. Besides which, he’s dead, so it’s a futile exercise.” “I’m not sure emotions are supposed to be outcome-focused.” “That”—his mouth softened into a smile—“is one of their many design flaws.”
“I thought”—he paused, frowning, seemingly caught in his own words—“perhaps, one day, when you’re ready, when we’re both ready, if you liked the house, although of course you may not, and I have no expectation that you will, or even if you did that you might wish, that you might consent, to live in it with me. Together.”
That's the swestest thing ever
“Did I misjudge? You’re welcome to stay at the penthouse with me. Or we could move back to One Hyde Park. Or I could buy you a mansion, or an island, or a windmill, or a yacht or—” I put my fingers to his lips. “Stop. I’ll admit I’m slightly tempted by the windmill, but this is perfect.”
“We can have one made to fit,” he said. “Although I don’t quite understand this obsession with posts.” “God, Caspian. Isn’t it every boy’s dream? To sleep in a four-poster bed like a princess. And, y’know—actually, never mind.”
