"I—yes."
"How many times?"
Heat flooded my face. "I don't know."
"Liar." His fingers returned, building me up again. "How many times did you make yourself come while thinking of me?"
"Every night." The admission broke something. "Sometimes twice. I couldn't—couldn't stop. Kept hearing your voice. Kept feeling—"
He stopped again, leaving me hanging on the edge of release. "Kept feeling what?"
"Empty," I sobbed. "I felt empty without you."
"There's my honest girl." His approval washed over me like warm water. "See how much easier it is when you stop fighting the truth?"
"I hate the truth."
"I know." His weight shifted, and suddenly his mouth was where his fingers had been. The first touch of his tongue made me scream. "But your body doesn't."
He worked me with the same methodical patience he brought to everything. Building me up over and over, always stopping just before release. Seven days of need compressed into moments of almost, and he wielded my desperation like a scalpel.
"Please," I begged, dignity abandoned. "Please, I need—"
"What do you need?" He pulled back enough to speak, breath hot against sensitized flesh. "Be specific."
"I need to come. Please. Please let me come."
"Let you?" He laughed, the sound vibrating through me. "Oh, baby. I'm not keeping you from coming. You're keeping yourself from coming."
"What?"
"You could come anytime. All you have to do is ask properly." His tongue traced patterns that made my thighs shake. "Ask to come home."
"I—what?"
"My bed," he clarified, pulling away entirely. "You want to sleep in my bed tonight. Want me to hold you while you shake apart. Want to be mine completely, not just during sessions."
"That's not—"
"Isn't it?" His fingers returned, brutal in their precision. "Seven days of dreaming about it. I know. I watched the footage. Watched you curl around that rabbit and whisper my name in your sleep."
Humiliation burned through me, but it only made the need sharper. He was right. I had dreamed of it. Of being held by someone who knew exactly how broken I was and wanted me anyway.
"Ask," he commanded. "Ask to come home to Daddy's bed."
The words stuck in my throat. This was different from calling myself Bunny, different from accepting praise. This was asking for something real. Something that would change the dynamic we'd built on careful cruelty and measured responses.
"I can't."
"You can." His touch gentled, soothing instead of stimulating. "You've been so brave, baby. So strong. But you don't have to be strong anymore. Just be mine."
"I'm already yours." The truth of it hit like a physical blow. "You know I am. The collar, the name, the way I respond—"
"Those are just symbols." His weight shifted, and I felt him lean over me. When he spoke, his lips brushed mine. "I want the reality. Want you to choose it. Choose me."
"Gabriel—"
"Doctor," he corrected, but gently. "Stay in the scene, baby. Stay with me."
