Page 96 of Down Bad

“Well, maybe. Your hands on my back. Your hands in that car on the driveway …”

“What about yours?” he throws back. “Mr. Plant Whisperer.”

“My thumbs aren’t as green as my parents’,” I admit just as he digs into somewhere perfectly pleasant at the base of my neck. I nearly let out a whimper.

“I think you underestimate yourself,” he says.

“Do I?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know that?”

“I think you’re capable of a lot more than you realize. I think you put yourself down all the time to make others feel better ‘bout themselves. I think—”

“You think a lot suddenly,” I tease. He goes quiet. Then I bite my lip. “You really think I … put myself down?”

“I think you could make a flower grow in a desert.”

I’m surprised for a moment by how unexpectedly beautiful a sentiment that is, coming from Diego. Then I make a face he can’t see. “But flowers grow in deserts.”

“What’re you talking about? No they don’t. It’s a desert.”

“Desert marigold. Desert lily. Brittlebush. Primrose …”

“Okay, okay.”

“Cactus blooms …”

“You know what I meant.”

“And I think you could open up a massage parlor tomorrow,” I throw right back, suppressing yet another whimper. “You’re, like, really … really good at this, by the way.”

His hands slow, like he’s thinking. “If I … didn’t do something about your neck, you’d be whining about it all night.”

“Does that mean you planned to let me hang here all night?”

“Dunno. Maybe.”

I bite my lip, excited. It’s like I’ve learned that the less he says, the more he’s saying. The thought makes my heart flutter, feeling like I’m really getting him now.

“Maybe you do the same thing,” I point out. “Putting yourself down. Unable to take a compliment without brushing it off.” I let out a sigh of pleasure. “You’re more amazing than you know.”

He says nothing back.

His hands slide down my back, massaging lower and lower. He shifts his weight, straddling my legs now, slightly spread apart. I fight this giddy feeling of anticipation bubbling up inside me as his hands reach the top of my ass, massaging deeper and deeper. He’s growing braver when he touches me, like it’s less of a request for permission each time and more of an assumed ownership.

He knows I want him to touch me.

Wherever he wants.

However he wants.

He knows he’s allowed to.

Any time of day or night. Any moment he pleases.

He knows I’d say yes no matter what.