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He practically dragged me away before lifting me and throwing me over his shoulder. The approval of our guests was communicated with roaring applause and another stack of napkins that caught Bennett in the back of the head.
He carried me all the way to the lobby and then slid me down his body, kissing my neck, my chin, my lips. “Ready?”
But when I turned toward the elevators, he stopped me with a big hand wrapped around my forearm. And then his other hand pulled a blindfold out of his pocket.
“What . . . ?” I asked, a wary smile spreading slowly across my face. “What are you doing with that in the lobby?”
“But we have a room upstairs,” I whined quietly. “With a big giant bed and several of your ties to get kinky with, and,” I dropped my voice, “the bottle of lube in the drawer.”
He laughed, bending to run his nose along my jaw. “There’s also a duffel bag in the limo outside that has several of my ties to get kinky with, the bottle of lube from the drawer, and a few other things.”
Bennett helped me climb into the back of the limo and then slipped the blindfold over my face, tying it firmly behind my head. It was wide and tight; the bastard had anticipated my plan to peek, and the silken fabric covered half my face. I was left in total darkness.
But beside me, I could sense when he shifted closer, could smell the clean, crisp sagey smell of him when he leaned in, sucked gently on my collarbone.
“Are you going to f**k me in this car?” I asked, reaching out blindly for him. I found his arm and pulled it around me.
His rumbling chuckle vibrated along my collarbones, from one side to the other, and I felt him reach for the hem of my wedding dress and slowly drag it up my legs.
Bennett’s fingertips tickled their way past my knee, along the inside of my thigh and to the thin white lace barely covering my pussy. He slid a knuckle under the fabric, dragging it back and forth over the already-slick skin beneath.
“Fuck,” he hissed. “Goddamnit, Chlo.” He pulled back, sliding two fingers into me, pumping them deep. “I’m not feeling particularly gentle tonight.”
Arching my neck, I gave his mouth better access to the most vulnerable part of my throat, whispering, “Good. I don’t want you slow and sweet.”
“But it’s our wedding night,” he argued with mock sincerity. “Shouldn’t I gently lay you on a feather bed and bring you endless, loving pleasure?”
I reached for his hand, pressed it harder into me. “You can do that when I’m bruised and sore afterwards, in the middle of the night.”
His laugh was so dark, and communicated such barely restrained need that it sent shivers down my back. I felt his breath on my ear when he asked, “So I have permission to be rough?”
I exhaled, a shaking, tense breath. “I want you filthy. I want you wild and impatient tonight. It’s how I feel.”
He twisted his wrist, and pushed a third finger into me so deep I felt the cool of his wedding ring against my skin, and I cried out from the sensation of the pressing metal, of being stretched tight. His thumb made teasing, maddening circles just around my clit, expertly never quite touching exactly where I wanted it. Traffic sounds grew to a crescendo and then ebbed into silence, and the steady thump of bridge spacers sounded beneath the wheels.
He pulled his hand out and reached for my shoulders, pulling me off the seat and dragging me so I kneeled on the floor. I felt him shift around to pull me closer, and I realized I was positioned between his legs. The sound of his belt, his zipper, and his pants being shoved down his h*ps cut through the quiet.
Despite the single rough word, his touch grew careful as I began to lower my mouth over him, as if he wasn’t sure how to blend his pent-up need to come with the reality of our brand-new marriage. We’d talked for cumulative hours about how things would be in this very moment—the two of us finally alone, married, and faced with the reality that it might be different—but now that we were in it, I could tell Bennett was a little torn.
We’d promised anything could always happen between us in the bedroom. We swore we’d never hold back, or be afraid to ask for whatever we needed.
But as I worked his length with my lips and my tongue, I could sense that Bennett’s hands were fisted at his sides, not in my hair. His h*ps were pressed firmly into the seat beneath him, instead of rising up, arching toward my mouth.
So I did the first thing that came to mind: with a quiet sucking sound, I pulled my mouth off his c**k and sat back on my heels.
His breaths came out in sharp gusts, but other than the sound of the road passing beneath us, the car fell silent.
In this moment, I hated not seeing his face, but I knew he understood the point I was making when he took a deep breath and asked, “Why the f**k did you stop?”
Strong hands lifted me off my heels and sat me back until my butt hit the floor of the limo and my spine rested on the seat opposite him. One of Bennett’s knees planted on the seat beside my head and without saying a word, he pressed the crown of his c**k to my lips, forcing my mouth open.
“Suck,” he said, and this time the word was coated in anger and need. I barely had time to adjust to the feel of him before a tight fist curled in my hair, holding me steady as he began to move in short jabs, not going too deep, at least not yet. Finally, his hands released my hair and left me only long enough to frame the side of my face, holding me steady for his longer, deeper strokes.
The car rolled to a stop and Bennett slammed a palm on the intercom button, managing a sharp “Wait here” before returning his hand to my face, groaning hoarsely.
His rumbling “Fuck, Chlo” sparked my lust, and I reached up to wrap my arms around his hips, whimpering at the powerful snap of his thrusts, the hard contractions of muscles in his ass.
I couldn’t see a thing, but each time he moved deeply and I felt the soft hair against my face, I wanted to suck as hard as I could so that when he pulled back I would wring as much pleasure out of this moment as I could for him. I felt desperate to give him this.
“So f**king good,” he said, his voice raspy, and I could tell from his movements that he was growing close. “Those perfect f**king lips. Feeling your tongue on me.”
With a final push inside, he came, c**k rigid and releasing his orgasm down my throat. He cried out as I swallowed around him, slowing his movements until only the tip of him rested against my tongue. I tilted my head up to him when he pulled out, and felt the soft glance of his thumb across my bottom lip.
Wordlessly, Bennett reached down and adjusted my blindfold before bending and kissing me deeply, his tongue sliding over mine.
And then he pulled my dress up, moving his hand between my legs and under the lace of my underwear, as if confirming what I’d said was true.
“I f**king love your mouth.” He leaned forward, laughing against my lips. “And I love f**king your mouth.”
His touch was gentler now, exploring rather than giving pleasure. He grunted quietly, moving his hand away from me, and I heard the rustle of fabric as he pulled up his pants, straightened his clothing.
Taking my hand, he murmured, “Come on, Mrs. Ryan. We’re here.”We were definitely in a hotel. I could tell by the sounds of elevators, suitcases rolling across travertine floors. I could hear the way voices grow hushed as we walked past, and I imagined how we must look: Bennett carrying a blindfolded and barefoot bride in his arms and with a duffel bag full of who-knows-what slung over his shoulder, carrying me barefoot and blindfolded in my wedding dress.
He carried me as if I weighed nothing, his strides even and steady. I pressed my lips to his neck and asked, “Is everyone looking at us?”
Once we stepped into the elevator, it smelled familiar. Was it possible we were back at the Hotel Del and he had just done an elaborate ruse to trick me? But if he did, why?
We rode up in silence and I adjusted my grip on his neck, trying to listen to the number of floors we passed, to any sign of where we were. Beneath my knees, his left hand squeezed me reassuringly.
I nodded just as the elevator dinged and the doors opened, but Bennett didn’t move. I realized there’d been someone else in there with us. How had it been for them, I wondered, to be watching us as we went up to wherever our final destination was, knowing we were clearly headed to our wedding night?
When we reached another floor, Bennett stepped out and carried me down what felt like the longest hallway ever.
Carefully, he put me down and I reached up, slipping the satin up and off my face. Yes. It was the room we’d stayed in at the W more than two years ago—the exact one. The same couch, the same bed, the same balcony, the same small kitchenette. Although, now it had a new, no-longer-broken desk.
I could feel Bennett watching me, gauging my reaction, but I’d been so overwhelmed with emotion all week that I felt a little numb, almost as if on top of the family around us, the wedding, the vows, and how much I needed to feel him, my mind clamped shut and I started to feel dizzy.
“We never did lose what we found in this room,” he said, bending now and kissing my shoulder. “In fact, we turned it into the happiest hate-love of all time.”
“We sure did.” I turned to look at him, wondering if now was when he tore my dress off and f**ked me facedown on the floor.
But his eyes were clear, careful. He stepped closer, bent to kiss my jaw. “You smell so f**king good.”
“Let’s call a truce for one night. I just need tonight,” he’d pled, and given me three desperate kisses.
He shrugged and when he smiled, he looked so young, almost innocent. “I think we’ll skip the fight in the bathroom, but I definitely hope you wake me up with your mouth on my cock.” He leaned forward, kissing me once and then pulling back to study my face. “Honestly, Chlo, I just want you out of this dress. I feel like we haven’t been skin to skin in months.”
I nodded without speaking, still overwhelmed and exhaling in relief when Bennett’s broad hands slid across my bare back, unbuttoning and pushing my dress down my sides, holding it up just enough for me to step out of the skirts. I turned back around to face him, wearing only a tiny strapless bra and the smallest thong I think I’d ever worn in my life.
I stood on the street, a rented minivan against the ruined curb behind us. Thick, wet American air pressed in on my skin, indefinably different than the damp of Europe. I looked down at the limp MapQuest printout in my hand, then up at the ruin where the house was supposed to be. The walls were covered in dirt and grit, and they slumped ominously to my right. Grass higher than my hips swallowed the concrete rubble that had been a walkway. The windows were gone, the interior walls all stripped down to water-blackened studs.
I walked up two steps of warped boards. Flecks of green paint still clung to them. A huge X had been spray-painted on the door, something that looked like a date above it, letters and numbers to the left and right, and a three beneath it. I could watch Chogyi Jake make his way around the side of the house and toward the back, his shadow visible through the holes in the walls. There wasn't enough tissue left on the house's bones to stop the light.
I put the key the lawyer had express-mailed me into the lock. It felt like I was dragging it through gravel, but the mechanism turned. I pushed the door open to the smell of rotting wood and mold.
Ex said something obscene in a reverent voice. The rest of the neighborhood, spreading out around us for blocks, was the same. Ruined streets as much pothole as pavement, shells of houses with only a handful restored or in the process of being restored. Tall grass. I was standing in front of an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar wound, and that was just my house. Every ruined house or bare foundation for blocks around was the same thing.
Hurricane Katrina had rolled into New Orleans three years before. I'd been in the long breathless pause between high school and college at the time, waiting tables at Cracker Barrel and screwing up the courage to tell my father that I was going to a secular university whether he liked it or not. I'd seen the pictures on the news, same as everyone else. I'd given some money to someone as part of a relief effort, or I thought I had. I couldn't remember now if I'd really done it or only meant to.
It felt like everything important in my life had happened since then: my whole abortive college career, losing my virginity to an unethical teaching assistant, the explosion of my social circle, losing my first real lover, dropping out, Eric's death, my inheritance, then fighting spiritual parasites and evil wizards. And in all that time, no one had fixed this house. Or knocked it down.
Three years was a long, long time for a twenty-three-year-old woman. It apparently wasn't much for a three-hundred-year-old city.
It took under ten minutes sitting in the backseat with Aubrey beside me on the laptop with the cell connection to find a hilariously pricey hotel, make reservations, and plug the address into the rental's GPS system. Chogyi Jake drove, and Ex rode shotgun. The jet lag was beginning to lift, my brain starting to unfog by slow degrees. The signs of damage that hadn't registered during the ride out from the airport now became clear. The yellow-white-gray high-water mark on the buildings, the broken windows made more evident by the few houses where new glass had been installed, the ruined asphalt, the strange and ubiquitous X mark on the houses we passed.
We were moving from water to water. My ruined house was a few blocks south of Lake Pontchartrain, the hotel I'd picked a few north of the Mississippi. But as we headed south on I-10, the signs faded. The water mark fell and went away. The city looked hale and healthy, as if we hadn't just seen a whole neighborhood that had gone necrotic.
"Are you kidding?" I said. "They have Mardi Gras here. Women get drunk and expose themselves. I'd have been disowned if I'd brought the idea up."
"I don't think the exposing yourself part's required," Ex said from the front. "I've been through a few times, and no one seemed offended when I didn't insist on seeing their breasts."
"Doesn't matter if it's true," I said. "It's all about appearances. Dad thought this place was Gomorrah to San Francisco's Sodom. He'd burst a blood vessel if he knew I was here."
"Forgive the change of subject, but should you consider telling the lawyers that we've changed venues and why?" Chogyi Jake said as he pulled the rental over one lane and got off the highway at Orleans heading toward Vieux Carr¨¦.
If anyone had asked me, back when I was a college dropout with no friends and a family that wasn't speaking to me, whether it would be harder to deal with an arcane world of possession by bodiless parasites or having a lot of money, I would have guessed wrong. Riders and magic were weird and unnatural, but at least they were expected to be. Money was just as strange, but everyone assumed that if I had that much, I must have some idea how it worked. I felt like half of my day was taken up with doing things that real rich people manage by instinct. Like letting my lawyer back in Denver know where to send things.
The man who answered the phone went from chilly to obsequious as soon as I said my name. Two blocks later, I had my lawyer on the phone, saying she'd get an assessor out to the ruined property as soon as possible. She spoke with careful enunciation so sharp I imagined all the words being relieved that they'd gotten out alive. She was the same lawyer who'd first told me my uncle was dead and that I'd inherited everything. We'd never had a personal conversation, but I secretly liked her.
The hotel was smaller than I'd expected and grander too. A fountain burbled in a low foyer. Dixieland jazz jumped and spun through the air like a company of musical acrobats, each instrument doing something apparently different but all perfectly coordinated. Crystal chandeliers hung from high ceilings. But the bones of the place showed that it had been built before the age of steel infrastructure.
The desk clerk-a black man with perfect skin and a Jamaican accent that could melt butter- handed me my key card. He even got my name right, zha-nay. I usually get Jane or Janie. I felt myself blushing a little bit, and wondered how long it had been since I'd been seriously flirted with. The four of us agreed to meet back in the lobby once we were unpacked and settled. I headed to my room.
It wasn't a large room, but it was beautiful. Silk wallpaper, crisp sheets, and wireless Internet. There can be no better. I tipped the guy who'd hauled my bags for me, then popped open my laptop and checked mail for the first time since we'd gotten on the plane in Greece.
The background check of Karen Black was in my inbox, cc'd to all the guys. I settled in to find out what I'd gotten us all into.
Karen Alicia Black was born a little over fifteen years before I was. Her father was a cop, her mother was a mother. No living family now, though. When I was getting out of Mrs. Detwyler's second-grade class at Blackburn Elementary, she was graduating from Oberlin with a double major in criminology and mathematics. She moved to Los Angeles and worked as a cop for two years, then joined the FBI. A note in brackets pointed out that this was an unusually short period of time-the FBI preferred three years of professional experience. I had the impression that whoever was writing the report had developed a little crush on her.
Her record at the FBI was impressive-kidnapping, arson, serial murder-until 1998. The year I'd spent watching Titanic fourteen times with Nellie Thompson, a man named Joseph Mfume moved to Eugene, Oregon, from Haiti. In the newspaper clippings that were inserted in the text file, he looked about twenty-five, handsome in a goofy way. During the six months after his arrival, he raped and killed seven women in particularly grotesque ways. Karen Black had been part of the team that brought him down.
After that, her career started going off the rails. Two years later, she quit the FBI under a cloud. There were suggestions that she'd been asked to resign, but nothing that proved it.
Since then, she'd worked on and off for a private investigator and started her own security consultancy based in Boston. Her addresses were listed with pictures of the offices, and the same contact number that was in my cell phone. Her credit rating was decent, the frequent flyer programs loved her, she'd had a couple of bouts of the flu over the years and treatment for chlamydia eight months ago. She owned a condo in Boston, she had no family, no husband, no kids. She'd been in New Orleans on and off almost since the hurricane.
The cool gaze that looked out from my computer screen could have belonged to an actress or a supermodel. Pale blue eyes, straight blond hair, a sly smile at the corner of her mouth that seemed to be part of the permanent architecture of her face. In the first image, she wore a black turtleneck and a leather overcoat that reached her ankles, a gray eastern-seaboard streetscape behind her. The next one was a more candid shot of the same woman outside a nightclub. She was in a low-cut emerald silk blouse and tight leather pants, and she had the figure to make the outfit work. Even without the cut of her clothes, I saw what the report's author was responding to.
She radiated confidence and certainty. It was in her eyes and the way she held her shoulders. She had tracked criminals and stopped killers, and her success had left its mark on her.
I closed the laptop and the French doors that opened onto the balcony. The lace curtains shifted in an air-conditioned breeze so slight I couldn't feel it. Behind them, palm trees stood guard before a sky of perfect, almost Caribbean blue. The next thing to do was make the call, tell Karen we'd arrived, where we were staying, arrange to meet. It was what I'd said I would do. And yet, here I was, sitting cross-legged on my rented bed, looking at my cell phone and not reaching for it.
It couldn't hurt to put it off, just for a little bit. The guys were probably settled into their own rooms by now, and talking to them would help take away my feeling of being desperately underprepared.
I took a quick shower, changed into my Pink Martini T-shirt and blue jeans that didn't have the stink of travel on them, shoved my laptop into my backpack, and headed down to the lobby. There was a restaurant where we could grab some coffee and talk. Or, failing that, we were in New Orleans. Rumor had it that the food didn't suck.
Only Chogyi Jake was sitting by the fountain when I got there. He'd changed into a linen suit the color of sand half a shade lighter than his skin. He hadn't shaved his scalp recently, and the stubble was like a shadow. He was looking out the window with his customary air of calm near-amusement. He grinned when he saw me.
"How's your room?" I asked, sitting beside him. The cascade of water gave us a white-noise barrier that meant even though I had to talk a little louder than usual, we still couldn't be easily overheard.
"Yes, okay. You're very clever," I said, a little more peevishly than I'd meant to. "I'm just feeling out of my depth again. Some more. Maybe coming here wasn't such a great idea."
I knotted my fingers together and looked out through the wide glass window at the narrow street of the French Quarter. Two men in desert-camouflage fatigues walked together, one leaning close to say something in the other man's ear. An older black woman with a wide straw hat and a shining aluminum tripod cane made her careful way across traffic. A girl no more than sixteen with caf¨¦-au-lait skin and hair in glistening black cornrows sped by on a racing bike, a parrot perched uneasily on her shoulder.
"You read the report on Black?" I asked, and Chogyi Jake nodded silently, not getting in the way of my words. "She's the real thing. Seriously, even without riders and magic and all the rest, she's a professional. Been doing all this for years. She's trained and experienced. And I'm still faking it. She double majored. I didn't even pick a degree program."
"And yet you were able to take on the Invisible College," Chogyi Jake said as if we were discussing someone else. "Eric wasn't able to accomplish that."
"We have been traveling constantly for months, working eight- and ten-hour days at a task so overwhelmingly large that even that effort hasn't brought us anywhere near completion," he said.
"I don't know. You have chosen the pace we've worked at. You've chosen to come here. And you've said that we'll take a rest when this is resolved, but that isn't the first time you've made that decision."
The front doors swung open, a brief gust of city air cutting through the climate-controlled cool of the lobby. Chogyi Jake counted off fingers as he spoke.
"After Denver, you planned to wait for Ex and Aubrey to close up shop. Aubrey had a career at the university he needed time to step away from. Ex had his own affairs. Instead you went ahead and let them catch up later. In Santa Fe, you talked about taking a week off, but changed your mind when we found the copy of the Antikythera mechanism."
"We arrived in London with the intention to take stock, and then rest for a few days, but those days never came. Instead, it was Athens, and now here. You're exhausted because you're exhausting yourself."
"I didn't say that you shouldn't. I only pointed out that you are. In order to make that kind of judgment..."
I sat forward, looking at my hands while his sentence hung in the silence. I knew what he meant. He couldn't judge what was driving me until he knew what it was. And even I didn't know that. Now that he pointed it out, I could see the pattern, one decision after the next, always pushing a little harder, a little faster. Covering ground.
It was that there was so much to look at. To catalog and discover. But that wasn't it either. Even as I tried out possible answers, I knew I was dancing around something. At the heart of it, the issue was more difficult and more painful.
My hands ached. Without realizing it, I had bunched them into fists so tight my knuckles were white. Chogyi Jake still hadn't broken the silence.
Silence which shouldn't have been there. The fountain, the wild brass band, the street noise. All of it was gone. My head jerked up. The lobby was perfectly still. Chogyi Jake's mouth was half open, caught in the middle of his thought. His eyes were empty as a stuffed bear's. The water from the fountain hung in the air like a thousand glass beads. Outside the window, a pigeon was suspended behind the glass in mid-flap.
The black woman I'd seen walking across the street stood at the foot of the stairs, leaning against her cane, regarding me sourly. She wore an old dress of brightly colored cotton, flowers blooming on her in red and green and orange. She'd taken off her hat, and gray hair framed her face like a storm cloud. Her lips had the lopsided softness of a stroke victim, but her eyes were bright with rage. When she spoke, her voice had the depth of a church bell and the threat of a power saw. It wasn't the voice of a human being. It was one of them. A rider.
In most cases, you won’t need to count calories on a ketogenic diet. However, if you find it hard to lose weight or you are relatively fit and trying to lose a small amount of fat, you may also have to count calories.
If you just started following a low-carb diet, don’t forget to read my free Guide to Keto & Paleo Diet which includes a print-friendly PDF version! You will find all the information you need, including the keto food list and tips on how to follow the diet to achieve your goals.
Maintenance Level, also known as Total Energy Expenditure, is a level at which you maintain a stable bodyweight. According to Lyle McDonald:
Basal Metabolic Rate is the amount of energy expended daily at rest. BMR is calculated by Mifflin – St Jeor Formula, which was found to be the most accurate.
Thermal Effect of Activity, also known as Activity Level, determines additional energy expenditure due to moving around and exercising. According to Lyle McDonald, broadly speaking, there are 5 categories / activity levels. We readjusted the multipliers from Lyle McDonald’s book to better reflect different activity levels that work for most people.
Sedentary: very little or no exercise (light walking) and most office jobs (receptionists, graphic designers, accountants, customer service workers, etc.)
Lightly Active: 1-3 times a week, light exercise such as light cardio (walking, light cycling) and lightly active jobs (teachers, nurses, etc.)
Moderately Active: 3-5 times a week (moderate cardio and muscle training) and moderately active jobs (waiters, cooks, etc.)
Very Active: 5 and more times a week (hard exercise, intense cardio and muscle training at fitness level) and very active jobs (constructive workers, farmers, landscapers, etc.)
Athletes / Bodybuilders: daily exercise at a professional level (HIIT training, heavy lifting) – calorie expenditure of individuals may vary significantly
Thermal Effect of Feeding TEF represents the increase in metabolic rate when food is ingested. Protein and carbohydrates have the highest specific dynamic action, while fat has the lowest. As a result, TEF on the ketogenic diet will be 10% on average.
The optimal protein intake depends on your lean mass (total weight minus body fat) and your activity level. Too much protein may disrupt ketosis, as excessive protein will be converted into glycogen and have a similar effect on ketosis as eating too many carbs. On the other hand, too little protein may cause muscle loss.
You don’t want to lose muscles because this will also slow down your metabolism and your body will burn less calories. To find out your ideal protein intake, you need to multiply your lean mass by a factor determined by your activity level.
According to Volek and Phinney (The Art and Science of Low Carbohydrate Performance), the multiplying factor should be between 0.6 – 1 grams per a pound (1.3 to 2.2 grams per a kilogram) of lean mass.
As an example, if your weight is 160 pounds and your body fat is 30%, your lean mass weight is calculated as follows:
Using your activity level will help you determine your protein intake more precisely. Based on the figures above, the ideal protein intake for different activity levels would be as follows:
Protein intake on a ketogenic diet does not change based on your goal – in other words it’s the same for weight loss, weight maintenance and weight gain!
Adequate protein intake and developing ketosis are both critical for maximising fat loss and sparing muscle mass during the ketogenic diet. However, it will take up to 3 weeks before your body gets keto-adapted (in some cases even more). During the initial phase of the ketogenic diet, nitrogen losses may occur if your daily net carbs intake is very low. When your carbohydrate intake goes down, your body converts body protein into glucose. Since about 16% of protein is nitrogen, you may lose muscle mass which will cause a decrease in your metabolic rate. This could have a negative impact on fat loss. For example, if your carbs intake is close to zero, you you may have to eat more protein (aka protein sparing modified fast). Keep in mind this applies to zero carbohydrate intake which means it does not affect most people following the ketogenic diet.
Early research into the topic of starvation and low-carbohydrate dieting found that as few as 15 grams of carbohydrates per day can limit nitrogen loss in the body. And raising carbohydrate intake to 50 grams per day severely limits the need for the body to use amino acids for gluoconeogenesis (which is why I suggested setting daily carbs on the low-carb days of The Ultimate Diet 2.0 at 50 grams). This occurs via at least two mechanisms:
1) The increased carb intake maintains blood glucose and insulin at a higher level (inhibiting cortisol release).
Not the most accurate but can give you a rough idea – it uses your body measurements (waist, hips and neck). Here is a good on-line calculator you can use.
The aim is to find the level best suited for you. There are two ways to count carbs – you can either count total carbs or net carbs (net carbs are total carbs minus fibre). According to Volek and Phinney, you should not eat more than 50 grams of total carbs (25-30 grams of net carbs) on a ketogenic diet. If your aim is to lose weight or maintain a healthy weight, eating 20-30 grams of net carbs (up to 50 grams of total carbs) is a great way to start. If you want to learn more about total vs net carbs, read this post.
In cases such as for the Restricted Ketogenic Diet for therapeutical uses, you may need to eat less than 20 grams of net carbs, or even less than 20 grams of total carbs. To learn more about carbs, check out this post.
Since the ideal protein intake is fixed based on your lean mass and activity level and your net carbs intake is specified by you, the only macronutrient that needs adjusting is the fat intake. Your fat intake is used to adjust the calorie intake. The more fat, the more calories. Typically, you adjust fat so that you reach but not exceed your target calories.
Obviously, the bigger the calorie deficit, the faster the weight loss. However, for best long term results a moderate deficit is recommended. Even for active individuals, best results are achieved with moderate caloric deficits.
What is the minimum calorie intake to achieve maximum fat loss? There are multiple factors that determine the minimum an individual should consume.
To prevent the formation of gallstones, your fat intake should not be less than 30 grams per day (Phinney and Volek, The Art and Science of Low-carbohydrate Living).
The maximum rate at which your body can release fat is 69.2 kcal per a kilogram of non-essential fat (290 kJ/kg) per day.
Although the maximum rate at which your body can release fat is based on a study that has not been done specifically for low-carb, ketogenic diets, it can be used as a safe estimate of the maximum fat loss.
Recalculate your macronutrients at least on a monthly basis. As your body weight and body fat change, your macronutrient ratio will also change.