Chapter 2: The Notebook
The kitchen faucet sputtered before it ran clear. Jordan watched the water fill the glass, his reflection fractured in the stream — a ghost of himself, flushed and hollowed out and grinning like an idiot.
Behind him, the bedroom door creaked open.
He didn't turn around. He didn't need to. He could hear her footsteps on the hardwood — soft, bare, unhurried — and the particular rhythm of her breathing that he'd catalogued in his notebook months ago. Page sixty-three. Genesis breathes differently after sex. Slower. Deeper. Like she's remembering how.
"You're making water," she said.
"Insightful."
"It's a very specific sound. Very domestic. Very post-coital." Her voice was still rough around the edges, that gravelly texture it got when she'd been screaming. "I approve."
Jordan turned.
Genesis stood in the doorway of his kitchen, completely naked, her hair a disaster of tangles and sweat-damp curls. The amber light from the bedroom spilled around her like a halo, catching the curve of her hip, the softness of her stomach, the dark thatch of hair between her thighs. She was holding something.
His notebook.
His blood went cold and hot at the same time. A full-body flash freeze, followed by immediate combustion.
"That's—" He set the glass down. Water sloshed over the rim. "That's not—"
"It was open on the counter." She held it up, flipping through pages with a casualness that made his stomach drop through the floor. "Very interesting reading material."
"Genesis—"
"Page forty-seven. 'Things Genesis Says She Wants.' Very thorough." She was smiling. That particular smile — the one that meant she was about to destroy him. "Did you really write down that I wanted to try the cider donuts four months before we went?"
"I was—"
"Page fifty-two. 'Genesis laughed at the joke about the existentialist and the bicycle. Duration: 3.2 seconds. Sound: like a door opening.'" She looked up at him, eyebrows raised. "You timed my laugh?"
"I didn't time it. I estimated."
"You estimated my laugh at 3.2 seconds."
"That's a very precise estimate."
She laughed. That laugh. The one he'd spent months trying to describe in the inadequate architecture of language.
"You're insane," she said. "You know that? You're actually, genuinely insane."
"I prefer 'observant.'"
"You wrote down what I wore to the Halloween party. 'Frida Kahlo. Red dress. Flowers in hair. One eyebrow drawn on for accuracy. Looked like a painting.'" She turned another page. "You compared me to a painting."
"You're an art history student. I thought you'd appreciate the comparison."
"I do appreciate it. I'm just—" She shook her head, still flipping. "I'm trying to process the fact that you've been cataloguing me like a fucking anthropologist for months. Every outfit. Every laugh. Every—" She stopped.
Her eyes had landed on something.
Jordan knew exactly what page she was on. He'd written it three weeks ago, at two in the morning, after a particularly vivid dream that he'd spent the following day trying to forget. The ink was smudged in places. The handwriting was worse than usual.
The title was clear, though. He could see it from across the room, the letters burned into his brain like a brand.
Things I Want to Do to Genesis (If She Ever Lets Me).
"Oh," Genesis said. Her voice had changed. Lower. Darker. "Oh, Jordan."
"I can explain—"
"I don't want an explanation." She looked up at him, and her eyes were black, pupils blown wide, hunger written across every line of her face. "I want you to come over here and read this to me."
Jordan's feet moved before his brain caught up. He crossed the kitchen in four steps, heart hammering against his ribs, and stopped in front of her. The notebook was open in her hands. His handwriting stared back at him, brutally honest, explicitly detailed.
"Read it," she said.
"Genesis—"
"Read. It."
He took a breath. The page blurred for a second, then sharpened. He knew what was on it. He'd read it a hundred times, edited it, added to it, crossed things out and written them back in. It was the truest thing he'd ever written. The most terrifying. The most him.
"Item one," he said, and his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat and tried again. "Item one. Make her come with my mouth. No hands. See how long it takes."
Genesis's breath caught. She didn't look away.
"Item two. Fuck her against a wall. Her legs around my waist. Her nails in my back."
"Keep going," she whispered.
"Item three. Watch her touch herself while I tell her what to do. Make her wait. Make her beg."
Her hand had drifted to her stomach. Her fingers were tracing slow circles there, but her eyes never left his face.
"Item four. Spank her. Not hard. Just enough to see the flush. Just enough to hear the sound."
"Jordan—"
"Item five. Tie her to my bed. Take my time. Worship every inch of her until she forgets her own name."
The notebook was shaking in her hands. Or maybe his hands were shaking. He wasn't sure anymore. The room had gone hazy at the edges, the world narrowing to just her — Genesis, naked in his kitchen, reading his filthiest fantasies like they were poetry.
"Item six," he said. "Eat her out from behind. Make her come on my face. Then fuck her without letting her catch her breath."
"Fuck," she breathed.
"Item seven. Come on her tits. Watch it drip down. Lick it off."
"Stop."
He stopped. His heart was going to explode. His cock was already hard again, straining against his boxers, leaking through the fabric.
Genesis closed the notebook. Set it on the counter. Then she looked at him, and her expression was something he'd never seen before — something raw and wild and completely unguarded.
"All of it," she said.
"What?"
"All of it. Right now." She reached back, swept the pile of philosophy books off the kitchen table. They crashed to the floor in a storm of pages. "Every item. Every fucking thing on that list. I want it."
Jordan stared at her.
"The table," she said. "Bend me over the table. Right now."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He grabbed her hips and spun her around, pressing her chest against the cool wood. She gasped, hands bracing against the surface, and he kicked her legs apart with his knee. The position opened her up, presented her, and Jordan had to close his eyes for a second because the sight of her cunt from this angle — pink and wet and still swollen from earlier — was almost too much.
"Which item first?" he asked. His voice sounded like gravel.
"Read them again." She looked back at him over her shoulder. "Read them while you fuck me. Check them off."
"Check them—"
"The notebook. Open the notebook. Read item one while you're inside me."
He reached around her, grabbed the notebook from the counter, flipped it open to the right page. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely find the words.
"Item one," he said. "Make her come with my mouth. No hands."
"Later," Genesis said. "Skip ahead. I need you inside me first. Then we go back."
He dropped the notebook on the table beside her. Positioned himself at her entrance. He could feel the heat of her, the slickness, and he had to bite his lip to keep from pushing in right away.
"Item two," he said. "Fuck her against a wall."
"The table's close enough. Do it."
He pushed inside her.
Fuck. She was still wet from before, still open, but the angle was different this time — deeper, sharper. Genesis cried out, her fingers scrabbling at the table's surface, and Jordan had to grab her hips to keep them both steady.
"Harder," she said. "Fuck me like you mean it."
He meant it.
The first thrust knocked the breath out of her. The second made her whimper. By the third, she was pushing back against him, meeting every stroke, and the sound of their bodies slapping together filled the kitchen like a drumbeat.
"Read," she gasped. "Read the next one."
Jordan fumbled for the notebook, one hand still gripping her hip. The pages blurred. He found his place.
"Item three. Watch her touch herself while I tell her what to do. Make her wait. Make her beg."
"Do it," Genesis said. "Tell me what to do."
"Touch your clit."
She obeyed immediately, her fingers finding her clit, rubbing fast circles while he fucked her from behind. The sight of it — her hand moving between her legs, her ass bouncing against his hips — nearly undid him.
"Don't stop," he said. "Don't you fucking stop."
"I'm not—" She gasped. "I'm close. Fuck, Jordan, I'm so close—"
"Wait."
"What?"
"Wait. Don't come yet." He slowed his rhythm, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in. "Beg me."
"You're—" She laughed, breathless. "You're really doing this."
"I'm really doing this. Beg."
"Please." The word came out broken. "Please, Jordan, I need to come. Please let me come."
"Good girl."
She came with a scream, her whole body convulsing, her cunt clenching around his cock like a fist. Jordan fucked her through it, riding the waves, watching her fall apart on the kitchen table he'd eaten cereal on this morning.
When she finally went limp, he pulled out. Grabbed the notebook again.
"Item four. Spank her. Not hard. Just enough to see the flush."
Genesis looked back at him, eyes glassy. "Do it."
He brought his palm down on her ass. The sound cracked through the kitchen like a whip. She yelped, then moaned.
Again. The other cheek this time. He watched his handprint bloom red on her skin.
"More," she said. "Harder."
He gave her harder. Five more strikes, each one leaving a mark, each one making her cry out in that perfect, broken way. By the time he stopped, her ass was pink and hot to the touch, and she was grinding against the table like she couldn't help herself.
"Item five. Tie her to my bed. Worship every inch of her until she forgets her own name."
"Later," she said. "We need—we need to do that later. What's next?"
Jordan scanned the page. His eyes landed on item six, and his cock twitched.
"Item six. Eat her out from behind."
Genesis didn't hesitate. She crawled onto the table — actually crawled, on her hands and knees, her ass in the air, her cunt dripping onto the wood. "Do it."
He knelt behind her. Pressed his face between her legs.
The taste of her hit him like a drug. Sweet and salty and musky, mixed with the latex aftertaste from earlier, and Jordan had never tasted anything better in his life. He licked a long stripe from her clit to her asshole, and she shuddered, her fingers clawing at the table.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, your tongue—"
He buried his face in her, eating her out like she was the last meal he'd ever have. His tongue circled her clit, dipped inside her, lapped at her juices. She was grinding against his face, moaning continuously, and he could feel her building again, could taste the change in her arousal.
"Don't stop," she begged. "Please don't stop—"
He didn't.
She came on his face with a sob, her whole body shaking, and Jordan kept licking until she pushed him away, oversensitive and gasping.
"Item seven," he said, wiping his mouth. "Come on her tits. Watch it drip down."
Genesis rolled over. Sat up. Looked at him with eyes that were barely focused.
"Do it," she said. "I want it."
Jordan stood. Stroked his cock, slick with her juices and his own precum. She was beautiful — flushed and sweaty and completely wrecked, sitting on his kitchen table with his handprints on her ass and her own wetness still glistening on her thighs.
"I'm close," he said.
"Come on me. Come on my tits. Let me see it."
He stroked faster. The pressure was building, coiling tight in his gut. Genesis cupped her breasts, presenting them, and that was it.
He came with a groan, ropes of hot white spunk painting her chest, her nipples, her collarbone. She watched it happen, watched it drip down her skin, and then she reached up and swiped a finger through the mess.
"Item seven," she said. "Check."
She brought her finger to her mouth and licked it clean.
Jordan's knees gave out. He collapsed onto the chair beside the table, breathing hard, head spinning. The kitchen smelled like sex and coffee and the faint, lingering sweetness of cider donuts.
Genesis slid off the table. Walked over to him on shaky legs. Straddled his lap, facing him, her arms looping around his neck.
"We didn't finish the list," she said.
"I know."
"I want to finish the list."
"Tomorrow."
She smiled. That smile. The one that made him feel like the luckiest idiot in the world.
"Tomorrow," she agreed. Then she kissed him, slow and deep, and he could taste himself on her tongue, and he thought — for the first time in his life — that maybe the present moment was enough. Maybe he didn't need to analyze it. Maybe he could just live in it.
"I love you," he said.
The words came out before he could stop them. Before he could overthink them. Before he could construct elaborate philosophical arguments about the nature of love and whether it was real or just a social construct and whether saying it too early would ruin everything.
Genesis pulled back. Looked at him. Her eyes were soft. Her smile was softer.
"I know," she said. "You wrote it in your notebook. Page eighty-three."
He blinked. "You read that far?"
"I read the whole thing, Jordan. Every page. Every ridiculous observation. Every terrible joke you wrote down because you wanted to remember how I laughed at it." She kissed his forehead. "I love you too, you absolute nerd."
The relief was so profound it felt like drowning in reverse. Like surfacing. Like breathing air for the first time.
"I need more water," he said.
"Get me some too."
He stood. Crossed to the sink. The faucet sputtered again before running clear, and Jordan filled two glasses while Genesis watched from the chair, naked and beautiful and completely his.
The notebook sat on the kitchen table, still open to page eighty-three.
He'd have to add a new entry tomorrow.
Something about the way she looked, right now, in his kitchen.
Something about the sound of her laugh, uninvited and real.
Something about the word love, and how it felt different when she said it back.
The water was cold against his tongue, shocking after the heat of her body. Jordan drank the whole glass in four swallows, set it down, and stared at the window above the sink. Outside, the world had gone dark. Streetlights buzzed. Somewhere a car door slammed, and a dog barked, and life continued in its ordinary, oblivious way.
Genesis was still in the chair behind him. He could hear her breathing — slow, steady, the rhythm of someone coming down from a high. He could smell her too. Sex and sweat and the faint floral notes of whatever lotion she used, all mixed together into something that made his chest ache.
"I should shower," she said.
"Probably."
"You could join me."
He turned. She was watching him with that look — half-lidded, amused, like she knew exactly what he was thinking and found it funny. Her hair had dried in strange directions. His come was still drying on her chest. She looked like a crime scene, and he wanted to photograph it, memorize it, write it down in his notebook so he'd never forget.
"I could," he said. "Or we could go to bed."
"Bed sounds good."
"Bed sounds great."
They didn't make it to the shower.
---
He woke to sunlight the color of pale honey, slanting through the blinds in thin stripes across the ceiling. His body felt heavy. Sore in places he hadn't known could be sore. There was a dull ache in his hips that he associated with running, but which he knew, in this case, came from something much better.
Genesis was beside him.
She was sprawled on her stomach, one arm flung across his chest, her face turned away from him into the pillow. The sheet had bunched around her waist, leaving her back bare. Her skin was warm and smooth, and he could see the faint red marks on her shoulder blades where his fingers had dug in the night before.
He didn't move.
He just lay there, listening to her breathe. Watching the light shift across her back. Cataloguing this moment the way he catalogued everything, but not because he was afraid of forgetting. Because he wanted to remember. Because this — right here, right now — was the thing he'd been waiting for.
She stirred.
"Stop watching me sleep," she mumbled into the pillow.
"I'm not watching you sleep."
"You're watching me. I can feel it. You're doing that thing with your eyes."
"What thing?"
"The intensity thing. Like you're trying to memorize me for an exam."
He smiled. "Maybe I am."
She rolled over, blinking at him with sleep-crusted eyes. Her face was puffy. Her breath was probably terrible. She was still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"What time is it?" she asked.
"Early."
"How early?"
He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. "Eight."
"Eight is not early. Eight is the middle of the day."
"It's Sunday."
"So?"
"So Sunday mornings don't count. Sunday mornings are theirs. We can stay in bed."
She considered this. Her hand found his stomach, her fingers tracing lazy patterns through the thin cotton of his boxers.
"I like that rule," she said.
"Me too."
"Your body's warm."
"Your body's warmer."
"Are we really doing this? Lying in bed being disgustingly cute?"
"I think we are."
"Gross."
"You started it."
She laughed. That laugh. The one he'd timed at 3.2 seconds, though he'd been wrong. It was longer than that. It was always longer than that.
He reached for her. She came willingly, curling into his side, her head on his chest, her leg hooked over his. The sheet had slipped lower, and he could feel the swell of her breast against his ribs, the soft give of her stomach, the heat of her core pressed against his hip.
"I want to do it again," she said.
"Already?"
"Not right this second. I need food first. But soon."
"Food. Yeah. I can do food."
He should get up. He should make her breakfast. That was the thing to do — the gentlemanly thing, the boyfriend thing, whatever this was. But he couldn't move. His limbs were heavy, and she was warm, and the world outside could wait.
"This is weird," she said.
"What is?"
"This. Being here. Being with you like this." She tilted her head up to look at him. "I've thought about it so many times. And now it's real. And it's not weird. It's the opposite of weird. That's the weird part."
Jordan understood exactly what she meant. He'd spent months imagining this. Analysing it. Predicting outcomes. Constructing scenarios. None of them had prepared him for how simple it was. How easy. How right.
"I read your notebook," she said. "The whole thing. Not just the list."
He tensed. "I know."
"There were things in there I didn't know."
"Like what?"
"You wrote about the first time you saw me. November 2nd. You wrote that I was wearing a green scarf and that my hair was wet from the rain and that you thought — and I quote — 'this is going to be a problem.'"
Jordan closed his eyes. "You weren't supposed to read that."
"Page sixty-three. You wrote that I breathe differently after sex. You didn't even know that for sure yet."
"I estimated."
"On page eighty-three you wrote that you loved me. The exact date. The exact time. The exact line I said that made you realize."
"The joke about the existentialist and the bicycle."
"That's your favourite joke."
"It's my favourite because you laughed at it."
She was quiet for a moment. Her fingers had stilled on his stomach. When she spoke, her voice was softer, less teasing.
"I wrote things too," she said.
"What?"
"Not in a notebook. I'm not organized enough for that. But in my head. I kept a list." She paused. "Every moment with you that felt like more than friendship."
Jordan's throat tightened. "Yeah?"
"The Halloween party. When you walked me home in the snow. That time in the library when you fell asleep and I watched you for like twenty minutes before I woke you up." Her voice dropped. "The night you brought me soup when I had the flu. You stayed for three hours. You didn't even do anything. You just sat there and read while I slept."
"I remember."
"You were reading Kant. I could see the cover. You read two hundred pages of Kant because I had a fever and you didn't want to leave."
"I wanted to be there when you woke up."
"I know. That's why I started waiting."
He kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her chin. She made a sound, soft and content, and then she was kissing him back, and the morning light was warm, and neither of them mentioned food again for a long time.
---
Morning sex was different.
Last night had been frantic. Desperate. Two people finally saying out loud what they'd been trying to say for months. But this — this was slow. Deliberate. Genesis straddled him, her knees on either side of his hips, her hands braced on his chest, and she took what she wanted.
Jordan let her.
He watched her move above him. The way her tits bounced with every roll of her hips. The way her mouth fell open when he hit the right spot. The way her eyes stayed locked on his, even when she shuddered and cried out.
"Fuck," she whispered. "You feel—"
"So do you."
She leaned down. Kissed him. Her hair falling around them like a curtain.
"I'm close," she said.
"Don't hold back."
She didn't.
The orgasm rolled through her like a wave, her cunt clenching around his cock, her whole body trembling. Jordan held her hips, thrusting up into her, chasing his own release. He came with a groan, filling the condom, watching her face go slack with pleasure.
She collapsed on top of him. He wrapped his arms around her. The sheet was tangled around their legs. Somewhere outside, someone was playing music — old jazz, soft and mournful.
"I need a shower now," she said. "For real."
"Yeah."
"Join me."
"Yeah."
They stayed like that for another minute first. Just breathing. Just existing. Just being.
---
He made pancakes.
They weren't good pancakes. He'd forgotten to buy baking soda two weeks ago and had been pretending not to notice ever since. The first batch came out flat and slightly grey, and Genesis laughed at him so hard she had to lean on the counter for support.
"You're a disaster," she said.
"I'm aware."
"You're making me eat sad pancakes."
"These are artisanal pancakes. They're supposed to look like this."
"Jordan, these are not artisanal. These are a crime."
He flipped another one. It sizzled in the pan and then collapsed on itself like a dying star. Genesis laughed harder.
"Here," she said, reaching for the spatula. "Let me try."
She was wearing one of his shirts — an old flannel thing that hung almost to her knees. Her hair was damp from the shower. There was a hickey forming on her collarbone that he definitely hadn't meant to leave.
She flipped the next pancake perfectly.
"Show off," he said.
"I have skills."
"You've been holding out on me."
"I have many hidden talents."
"I look forward to discovering them."
She glanced at him, something warm flickering in her eyes. "You'll need more notebooks."
"I'll buy stock."
She set the pancake on the stack. Turned off the burner. Then she crossed to him, took his face in her hands, and kissed him. Slow and deep and intentional.
"This is good," she said when she pulled back. "This is really good."
"Yeah."
"I'm going to go home later. I need clothes. I need to feed my cat."
"You have a cat?"
"Did I not tell you that?"
"No."
"His name is Foucault."
Jordan stared at her.
"He's a very judgmental cat. It fits."
"You named your cat Foucault."
"I named my cat after a French philosopher who wrote about power structures and discipline. Yes. It was appropriate. He was always watching me from high places."
"He was always watching you."
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not making it weird. It's already weird. It's the weirdest thing I've ever heard."
She swatted his arm. He pulled her close. She fit perfectly against him, her head tucked under his chin, her arms around his waist.
"I'll be back tonight," she said.
"I'll be here."
"You'd better be."
"Where else would I go?"
She didn't answer. She just held him tighter.
The pancakes got cold on the counter. Outside, the morning had shifted into afternoon, the light changing from gold to white, the world going on about its business. Jordan didn't care about any of it.
He had her. He had this. He had everything.
The notebook sat on the kitchen table, still open to page eighty-three.
He'd write a new entry later. Something about cold pancakes and damp hair and the way she looked in his clothes. Something about the word love, and how it felt different when she said it back.
Something about the future, and how it no longer felt like a problem to solve.
Just a place to go.
Together.