And then I get into the bed on the other side of him, leaning up on one elbow so I can look down at him. He reaches up to his mask, but I catch his fingers. “No,” I say gently. “You must leave it on. House protocols.”
It’s hard to read his expression under that red silk mask, but not impossible. I believe I catch a look of disappointment.
He’s not the only one who wishes things were different.
“Are you very sore?” I ask, running my free hand through his hair. It’s just as soft as it looks.
He gives a small smile. “It hurts, my lord. But that’s the point.”
“Indeed. Are you…” I don’t even know what it is that I want to ask. “Red, amber or green?”
“I’m green. But I very much appreciate your concern, my lord.”
“Turn over,” I tell him, and when he does I am both relieved and disappointed that he settles his head on his crossed arms, looking the other way from me. Relieved because looking at those sweet, curving lips any longer might make me lean down to taste them.
Disappointed because Iwantto lean down and taste them.
I settle for running a soothing hand over his back, squeezing at his shoulders when I find them, a half-massage that soon has him humming his approval. I let my hand drift lower, then pause. “May I?” I say, with my fingers touching the very edge of the swell of his ass.
“Please.”
“I’ll need a ‘green,’ Oliver.”
“Green, green,green,” he groans, shifting a little as my hand slides down to cup one cheek. His back was warm under my hands, but here he is downrighthot, and I stifle a sigh of pleasure. His ass fits so perfectly into my hand, and I can picture the stripes I’ve made across it, seductively out of view beneath the heavy, luxurious sheets. I’m not a true sadist—not like Zee, or some of her protégés—but I have a deep sense of right and wrong, and I enjoy the feeling of balance that punishment can bring.
But just as much, I enjoy the aftercare. I like knowing that a man has put himself into my hands for both pain and pleasure, that both are equally welcomed. And Oliver’s acquiescence, his deep relaxation and trust, are stirring something inside me.
Something I have not felt for many years. Something I assumed had turned to dust.
“There are a variety of creams and ointments,” I offer as I knead his cheeks, squeezing at his flesh gently, in sharp contrast to the mounting urgency winding tight in my belly.
Thank God I remained clothed before I got into bed.
“No, my lord,” Oliver mumbles. “Just this. Like this…”
I sweep my hand back up to his shoulders, but soon enough I’m back to those wondrous globes again, so intent on the velvet feel of his skin that I don’t even notice that his breath has evened out, deepened.
He’s asleep.
It has been many years since I’ve felt such overwhelming tenderness. To see such complete trust—despite the way I’ve needled him, ignored him, beenrudeto him all day—it shames me.
I have no right to receive such trust from Oliver. I haven’t earned it the way Ishouldhave earned it. Yet here it is: a gift that I do not deserve.
It’s a veritable slap in the face.
I slide out of bed, telling my foolish heart to stop leaping around in my chest quite so much, and come around to look down at him. I reach out to the mask, and I’m tempted, just for a moment.
But I leave the mask as it is, though I note the sweep of thick lashes from his closed eyes.
He is dead to the world.
I tuck him in once more, since my movements out of the bed have disturbed the covers, and then I back away and wonder what to do.
I can’t wake him. I don’twantto wake him. And I can’t get back into that bed. If I do…
If I do, I’ll take him into my arms.
I replace the cane in the wall cabinet, and then I sit down at the petite writing desk set beneath it. After checking once more that Oliver is asleep, I slide open the top drawer and look down at the folded scrap of paper that I put in there myself on my arrival.
