Pleasure in the way of dissecting something to know how it works, maybe. We’re our rawest selves when we’re loving other people.

( the malleable, velveteen pathways of her mind open up — to a memory, a different threesome, a broody man (tristan) and an academic woman (libby) shyly stroking their hands on each others bodies, suddenly pulled taunt together as two strings in a knot by parisa’s blandly gentle, almost professorial hands. they just needed a push to cross that budding line of attraction, and parisa just needed to not be their least favorite person, in case they got any ideas about murdering her. )

Don’t you think so?