"Camilla? What are you—"
She closes the door behind her, cutting off my question. Then she's moving toward the bed with more confidence than yesterday, no hesitation in her steps.
She chose to come back to me.
"I didn't think..." I trail off, not sure what I'm trying to say. That I didn't think she'd return? That I didn't dare hope?
"Don't talk," she says softly, reaching the edge of the bed. "Not tonight."
I nod, understanding.
Last night had words—necessary words about choice and control and healing. Tonight is different. Tonight is whatever this is between us that we're not ready to name in daylight.
She climbs into bed beside me, and I can immediately feel the difference from last night. She's not trembling. Not uncertain.
Like she knows what she wants now.
Her hand settles on my chest, palm flat against my heartbeat. I'm sure she can feel how fast it's racing, how her mere presence undoes every bit of control I have.
"Last night you gave me what I needed," she murmurs, her fingers tracing patterns on my skin. "Tonight, I want to give you something."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." Her eyes meet mine in the darkness. "I want to."
The distinction matters. Everything with her is about choice now, about doing things because she wants to rather than because she's expected to.
"Okay," I say. "Whatever you want."
Her hand slides down my chest to my stomach, exploratory, curious. She's learning my body the way I learned hers last night.
When her fingers trace along the waistband of my boxers, my cock goes hard.
"Can I?" she asks.
"God, yes."
She removes them slowly, her confidence growing as she exposes me. When I'm fully naked, she just looks at me for a moment, her expression thoughtful.
"I want to touch you," she says. "The way you touched me. I want to learn you."
The raw honesty in her voice undoes me. This isn't about repaying a debt or fulfilling an obligation. This is about her taking back another piece of power—the power to explore, to discover, to give pleasure instead of just receiving it.
"Touch me," I tell her. "However, you want. Anywhere you want."
Her hand hovers above me for a heartbeat, fingers trembling, before she finally wraps them around my cock. The first touch is tentative, almost shy, her fingertips cool against the feverish heat of my skin.
I bite back a groan, my muscles tensing as she explores the weight, the length, the way my breath catches when she brushes her thumb over the sensitive underside.
She watches my face as she experiments, her eyes searching mine for any sign of displeasure. But there’s only pleasure, sharp and aching, coiling tighter with every stroke.
Her grip firms, her rhythm steadying as she grows bolder. When she circles me firmly, her palm sliding all the way down to the base and up again, I can’t hold back the low, guttural sound that escapes my throat. My hips jerk involuntarily, seeking more of her touch, more of the friction.
“Like this?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper, but there’s a thread of pride woven through it.
“Perfect,” I manage, the word torn from me. “Yes, just like that.”
Her thumb brushes across the head of my cock, smearing the slick bead of pre-cum in slow, deliberate circles. The sensation is electric, a jolt of pleasure so intense it steals my breath. I can’t suppress the sharp intake of air, the way my fingers dig into the sheets, knuckles white.
