Debbie's hand is on his throat, snaking around from behind. It is not comforting.

"You're thinking about work, aren't you."

"Trying not to."

Bent over the edge of the bed — Debbie's teeth catching in the soft edge of his right ear, not a tease, more like touching base. Holden looks back at her over his shoulder. It puts a twinge in his neck, and a not-unpleasant shiver at the base of his spine. Her hair is falling loose, still damp from the shower — she smells like Earth Born shampoo and seawater and a little like Vaseline.

"Your voice cracked. That's so cute. Seriously, do you want me to stop?"

"No, I want you to keep going. I just need," Holden says, "a moment."

The tops of her legs are cool and soft, sliding against the backs of Holden's — the fingers of her other hand are slippery and circling, the kind of probing touch that's not exactly unfamiliar coming from her. The kind of touch that brought them here. They should have done this in the shower, but visions of nasty falls and emergency room visits it would be difficult to clear with the FBI are still dancing in Holden's head.

A hard sigh. "You trust me not to hurt you."

"I do, I do. It's more about — a feeling."

"You know guys do this all the time, right? You're not being subjected to a uniquely feminine position just because something's going in your ass."

Debbie using her fingers is one thing. Having a sex toy — and that's one of those words on that list, isn't it — seems like another. Foreign, inflexible. Rigid. The symbolic value is close to the surface. And then there's all the rings and straps. Which isn't to say that he's afraid, or unwilling, only that he's — cautious.

"I know," Holden says innocently.

"Tell me if you want me to go slow," she says, partly a directive and partly a come-on. "I can see all the muscles in your back. I can see your spine."

Her fingers moving inside him make his breath catch.

"You can go fast, if you'd like."

Debbie hesitates for a moment over him, with her free arm still cinched over his chest. Getting fucked from behind: dehumanizing, sure, easier maybe. Easier for the perpetrator. Easier to screw a stranger. They're not strangers any longer; he can trust her to know what she's doing with a dildo.

"Is this doing anything for your consciousness?"

"Maybe something."

"If you've changed your mind, I won't hold it against you." Something different in her voice — maybe a kindness, but he can't pinpoint what he's hearing, can't ask, Debbie, are you being kind to me about this? "We can just go to bed. I'll take it off."

"Nothing's changed. I still want this." His dick is still hard. He can find it with his hand. Holden wonders idly if he'll lose it when he's fucked — the erection, not his self-control.

Debbie sighs, and her bare foot rubs against his ankle.

"All right. Just relax."

They're safe here — in Debbie's room with thrift-store scarves thrown over the lamps and the smell of jasmine oil in his nose, Millett and Greer on the nightstand. Softness and safeness and bohemian familiarity.

He isn't bound. Nothing hurts. Debbie strokes the outside of his leg, where a muscle is quaking.

He wants this, but he's terrified of what it might mean. What it might mean for the two of them, sure, because surely it's of some significance that every time they tumble into bed things get weirder than the time before. It feels — exposed, kind of raw. Wanting things and then getting them.

Debbie moves on him, bringing in her hips close and sinuous for an angled thrust — Holden makes an involuntary sound, the kind of surprised goofy sound he's been concretely resolved not to make, and his legs splay further apart to let her in again. She can see his spine, she can see his whole bared back.

He shifts and spreads his fingers against the bedsheets and Debbie goes hmm, she laces their fingers together with the heel of her hand pressing, not even breaking her stride as it moves inside him again and grazes some cryptic unknown spot. She lowers her head and presses her mouth to the place between his shoulders — a kiss with teeth.

"It's good — don't stop."

"You're in your head again. Don't think about work, relax. And don't use your hands."

Holden makes another noise, more choked this time as Debbie's fingers circle his asshole, depositing a little more lube around the base of the absurd plastic cock. It would be absurd if it weren't so much, it was absurd as a disembodied object all pink and lonely, but the power of her long lean body wipes away anything that's anything less than punishing. His asshole is taking it just fine — even eagerly.

Debbie fucks him not unlike he fucks Debbie — diligently, thoughtfully, not too hard but deep. She approaches his body with vindictive curiosity — and his body answers to it, it makes him shake and moan and twist.

It might be better if they were face to face. Next time they'll do this face to face. Holden shudders a little and draws his hands together, up on his elbows, straightening his back — finding a better angle. Some things feel better than others — some ways of being handled, where Debbie places her hands or guides her thrusts. When Debbie grips him roughly and lets her fingers slide into the matching natural disruptions in the line where his hips meet his thighs, that part is good — when she swats him on the ass and growls "ride 'em, cowboy" in a moment of uneasy silence, that's less stimulating. Holden coughs with surprise. She doesn't do that again.

It's a different scheme of things. Different — good.

Some time later, Debbie plants the heel of her hand at the base of his spine.

"You've got dimples back here. It's cute."

Holden pants, "Is it?"

"If you want to jerk yourself off, you should do that. You're doing great."

"I think I already came."

It's difficult to tell. But his dick is sticking to his thigh now, and whatever discomfort he might have felt is eclipsed in a willing ache.

"Did you? That's interesting."

Debbie comes loose from him and rolls him over gently; the dildo sort of twangs against his leg. Sweat-soaked and a little dizzy — face to face now, Debbie is holding him in her arms and his hair is sticking to his forehead. His fingers are unbuckling the straps banding her hips, the tops of her legs. The harness slips down her thighs.

Bare chest almost to bare chest. Her heart is pounding easily as fast as his, or faster. They'll need a moment to catch their breath.

"The asshole sucks." Holden sucks down breaths until his throat feels less sticky. Debbie's fingertips leave Vaseline trails on his lower back. Her eyelashes are sticking together, making perfect dark geometric points. She's studying him with interest.

"I'd say it's not half bad."

"No, it was something Kemper said — forget it."

"I wouldn't take advice on my love life from Ed Kemper."

Holden shakes his head, like a swimmer getting water out of his ears. The soreness between his legs is keener now, but not unpleasant either. "You're all wet. Can I?"

Debbie nods amiably and guides him down between her legs. He can find the cleft of her, her dark bush framed by the black leather straps — Holden loves this, the wildness of her and the sea-salt smell, the way she laughs a little darkly and brings up her knee. There's a razor track running up her shin, a little red beaded gash. A mark of love.