Means this stopped being a transaction and became something else entirely.
Something I don't know how to control.
Something that scares me more than I want to admit.
I drain the scotch.
Set the glass down with more force than necessary.
Pull up my laptop and open the security system.
I shouldn't.
Should give her privacy.
Should let her process without my voyeuristic observation.
But I can't help myself.
I pull up the camera feed for her bedroom.
She's sitting on the bed, still fully dressed in those silk pajamas and robe.
The vibrator is on the nightstand where I left it, rose gold gleaming in the lamplight.
She's staring at it like it might come alive and attack her.
Like it's dangerous.
Itisdangerous.
Just not in the way she thinks.
As I watch, she reaches out slowly and touches it with one finger.
She pulls her hand back like it burned her.
Then she stands abruptly, paces to the window and presses her forehead against the glass, her breath fogging the pane.
Her shoulders are shaking.
Is she crying?
The thought makes something twist painfully in my chest. Something that feels uncomfortably like guilt.
I watch as she wraps her arms around herself, holding herself together.
As she stands there for long minutes, just staring out into the darkness beyond the window, beyond the grounds, beyond the cage I've built around her.
Processing.
Trying to reconcile what she felt with what she was taught to believe.
Trying to understand if pleasure makes her weak or wrong or corrupted.
Trying to figure out if she's still the good girl from the Sanctuary or if she's become something else entirely.
After what feels like an eternity, she moves away from the window.
