Do Your Worst

by Rosie Danan

“Wait.” Eilean stopped working. “You’re not going to hit on him, are you?” “I mean, yeah,” Riley said, “but, like, respectfully.”

He paid, though she sincerely tried to get him to split it, suggesting they settle the matter in a thumb war, an offer he indulged purely for the chance to hold her hand. His life could do with an influx of whimsy.

Clark bit his already abused lip so hard he tasted blood, trying not to whimper for her, not to thrust his hips up into his calloused palm.

“It’s called brooding,” Clark said, standing up a little straighter, “and no one complained when Darcy did it.” “Yeah, well”—she gave him a look just shy of a leer—“that’s because Colin Firth had the decency to get his shirt wet.”

When the next tug on her hair pulled sharply, Riley let out a soft gasp. “Sorry.” Clark immediately relaxed his grip. “I’ll be more careful.” “Don’t bother. I like it,” Riley blurted without thinking. There was a heavy pause. Her pulse began to match the wild riot of the storm pounding against the metal roof. There’s no need to get embarrassed, she told herself, fighting off a mounting urge to panic. So she liked a certain kind of sex. So what? She knew this about herself and had for a while. It wasn’t a big deal. And sure, it required a partner with certain complementary inclinations, but Riley didn’t expect Clark Edgeware to give her what she needed. He was English. His people had practically invented repression. Except he was slowly wrapping the tendrils of her hair more firmly around his fist. “Do you?” The words fell like velvet against the skin he’d exposed at the back of her neck.

I wonder if… “Who knew”—she held his gaze—“that you were such a slut.”

“Sorry,” a little rough, a little sheepish. “Sorry, I just like it.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“In that case,” he said, a little breathless, a little giddy, “I love you.” Even after all the lead-up, the words still took her aback. Riley hadn’t known how much she wanted to hear them. How much she wanted them to come from Clark. How much she kept from herself, because wanting it scared her. But now. She carried his love for her in her chest. As if she’d swallowed the sun. And all she could think was I hope it’s the same for him. That he doesn’t just hear the words, but that they stay somewhere safe behind his ribs—a light that doesn’t burn out.

Maybe if they were in their twenties, it would seem too soon to be talking about this kind of stuff, but they weren’t. They both had a strong sense of self, they knew what they wanted, what they valued.

Gran didn’t care in the end if either of us decided to follow in her footsteps. She wanted us to know her. And she wanted us to believe in our ability to change things, to help people.”