Trading Tides Read Online Free

keep it taut and strong the further we were apart from each other.
    His lips curled into a sad smile, and I was grateful that he didn't try to make me feel better, didn't say anything. In my mind, I was back at that little train station; in my mind, I'd cared less about standing my ground, about declaring my independence and I'd returned with him to his cottage, leaning my head on his shoulder on the way back, not allowing this distance to seep between us, until the time we spent together in his world was like something that happened to somebody else, intangible and out of reach.
    "I miss you, too, Iris. I miss having you here."
    I looked up, and it didn't matter that it was what I'd needed to hear. It still wrapped iron bands around my chest, made it hard, made it painful to breathe. I licked my lips, rubbed my face.  
    This is what I do: if it gets too intense, I run from it.  
    "So, this cooking thing," I started, putting on a brave, fluttering smile. "I hope we're starting on a pretty basic level here, because I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing."

III

    There was a mountain of dishes in the sink; the entire flat smelled like lemon, cilantro and spices, and I was drunk and full, swaying as I carried the laptop over to the bed. It came down hard on my nightstand, and I giggled as I tilted the screen up.
    "This is really not a flattering angle."  
    I scrunched up my nose as I inspected the little moving image of myself next to his face, the way I stood there, hands awkwardly on my hips. "I just thought you should, you know, know that before..."
    Paul chuckled, shaking his head and I fell silent. He'd moved, too, and settled himself on the living room floor. I imagined him sitting cross-legged, his spine straight and strong, his fingers just out of frame maybe rolling up a rare cigarette or resting on his crotch. The thought filled me with envy, with longing like a constant, persistent ache that lodged itself under the arch of my ribs, pressing on my diaphragm and making it hard to breathe.
    I knew what his expression meant, too. I was supposed to stop talking, or at least to stop criticizing myself, but as I’d discovered before: back at his cottage that day, I’d reached a mindset I just couldn’t access over the phone. It was a place where all I’d wanted to do was please him, where his command was literally impossible to deny. But I wasn’t at his cottage; I was drunk and both feeling bittersweet and lonely, and well aware that the best I could hope for that night was a lackluster orgasm at my own hands. I hated that it changed things, diminished their intensity, but it did.
    “I also just ate a lot…” I added, fingering the hem of my shirt.
    “I know what you look like, pet.”  
    His reminder was uttered gently, but I still fell silent, bit my lip as he went on. “I held you. I bathed you. I felt your flesh quiver under the impact of my hand. I didn’t ask you to strip in order to judge your appearance.”
    I knew that, of course I did. It was easiest to blame the wine and the absence of his hands on my skin; I didn’t like to think of myself as a person with body issues. It felt so beside the point most of the time—until a bad webcam was about to film me stripping off my clothes, and the man watching was someone I really wasn’t done trying to impress yet.
    “Here, let me just…” I picked the laptop up again, plucked a few books from the shelf and set it back down at the height of my chest. It was better that way and I breathed in deeply.
    “Are you ready, pet?” he asked. I recognized the tiny stress on the last word; it stirred the part of me that wanted to sink to my knees and call him Sir. I shuddered and took a step closer to the camera.
    “Yes, Sir.”
    “Then remove your clothes for me. Now."
    I shivered, but not from the cold. His Thai food was still keeping me warm from within, and the radiator was on. Outside, a few snowflakes plummeted to the ground; they were wet and too