Free Scenes From the City: A Knitting in the City Wintertime Surprise by Penny Reid Page A

completely possessing the woman they love, of having her unquestioning trust and obedience and admiration. But most importantly, of actually being a man that deserves it all. And I think women—though they are loathe to admit it—fundamentally want to be possessed.”
    “That’s repugnant.” I wrinkled my nose at him, trying to hide how paradoxically disturbed and bizarrely hot his words made me. “There is nothing interesting about treating women as possessions; it’s dehumanizing.”
    “Not necessarily, not if a man treasures his possession, cherishes her, protects her—it’s about ownership.”
    “Ownership? Possessions can be discarded, given away,” I pointed out, feeling a thrill. Our conversation had become rapid fire, almost to the point of speaking over each other.
    “So can people. People are discarded all the time. But if you truly own her, own her heart, if she is truly yours, abandoned to you, then you cannot discard her. She is where she belongs, hence the ownership.”
    “Possessions don’t have thoughts or feelings; they’re inanimate objects.”
    “Ah, but women are never inanimate, not the way I do it.” I ignored this comment because his tone, which remained uninflected, was at odds with the suggestiveness of his words.
    “If a husband were at the whim of his wife, it would be called emasculating. But when it’s the reverse, it’s acceptable?”
    “That’s not true.”
    “Which part?”
    “You don’t like the idea of being owned? Of wholly belonging to someone?” he asked softly, his eyes warming and dipping to my neck before drifting to my lips.
    “Other than to myself? No. I don’t like the idea of being a possession. Do you?”
    “Yes,” he nodded slowly, his eyes no longer cautious. “Yes, I do quite like the idea of mutual ownership.”
    I sputtered, warmth suffusing my chest, twisting in my stomach, making me feel breathless. I glanced at the ceiling, then glared at him; I tried to force myself to feel the irritation I should. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
    “But you like it.” Suddenly his tone changed; it was quiet, intimate, yet tremendously self-assured.
    I felt my grin too late; it had already split my face by the time I realized I was smiling. But his answering crooked grin and darkening eyes were worth the transparency of my expression.
    He was more than fascinating; he was engaging. I found myself wanting to interact with him.
    I liked him, the shocking things he said, his measured offensive abrasiveness, and I let it show on my face. Furthermore I was about to admit these feelings out loud when our outrageous and flirtatious exchange was interrupted and the spell shattered.
    “Greg, babe, you’re not dressed yet,” a girl called from several feet away, and I turned my attention towards her voice.
    I had to fight the urge to gape. She was gorgeous, and she definitely wasn’t a girl. Towering at almost six feet, auburn hair, whiskey-colored eyes, she had the most perfect body I’d ever seen on an actual live person.
    Her gaze moved over me and settled on something between dismissive and friendly. I’d learned early on in my observations last semester that women frequently did this (sizing their fellow females up in the span of a few seconds). I used to think it was something only athletes did to other competitors.
    The mysterious supermodel had clearly determined that I was not a threat.
    I glanced away and down at my hand-knit socks, blushing again and running my fingers through my short hair. The hot stain on my cheeks was so unlike me, and yet I welcomed the sensation, the uncomfortableness of it. This was a new experience, and I would never begrudge new experiences, not after almost losing the ability to experience anything at all.
    She strolled to where we stood, a polite smile on her face, and stopped next to Greg. I kept my eyes on either her or my socks, not wanting to look at this guy I liked, whom I thought I’d been