"You didn't have to answer."
"No." I set her leg down and lift the other. "I didn't."
The silence stretches while I wash her other leg, her ankles, her feet. She relaxes slowly, degree by degree, until she's leaning back against my chest.
"I spoke at the meeting yesterday," she says suddenly.
"Yes."
"I shouldn't have—I don't know if that was—you said I could, but I don't know if you actually meant—"
I pull her back against me. Hard. My arms wrap around her waist, crossing over her stomach, holding her in place. My cock presses against her lower back. My balls rest against the curve of her ass. I don't adjust. I don't pull back. I let her feel all of it.
"Listen to me," I say. Low. Against her ear. "I want you to understand this clearly."
She's not breathing.
"When you stood up in that meeting and spoke—" I have to stop. Start again. "I spent the next hour trying to figure out how to get everyone out of the room fast enough that I could bend you over the table and fuck you until you couldn't remember your own name."
She makes a sound. Small. Strangled.
"When you gave orders—my orders, in my voice—I considered killing the man across from you just for the pleasure of having something to do with my hands that wasn't touching you."
My arms tighten. She's trembling again. Not from cold.
"When you looked at me afterward, asking permission—" My teeth are bared against the back of her neck. "I wanted to drag you out of that room and show you exactly how right it was. Exactly how much I want you ruling in my name. Exactly how fucked I am every moment you are anywhere near me."
Silence. Just the sound of water. Her breathing. Mine.
"So yes," I say, my voice steadier now. Barely. "It was acceptable. Do it again. Do it whenever you want. Give orders. Make decisions. Speak in my name. And I will sit beside you and try not to lose my fucking mind."
…
"That's—a lot."
I laugh, the sound cracking out of me, rough and unpolished.
"Yes," I agree. "It is."
"You can't just—you can't just say things like that—"
"Why not?"
"Because—" She struggles and I can feel her searching for words. "Because it's—because I don't know what to—"
"You don't have to do anything."
"That's not—"
"I'm not asking you to respond. I'm telling you the truth." My mouth presses against her temple. "It's all I know how to give you."
She goes still. Something in her body changes—attention sharpening, focus narrowing.
"What do you mean?"
I shouldn't answer. I should deflect, change the subject, make a crude joke about what else I could give her. That's what I do. That's what I've always done.
But she's warm against me and she asked and I can't seem to stop.
