“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I can’t see his reaction. I can’t see anything but a blurry haze.
Everything goes soft. Warm water, gentle hands, his voice a low rumble I feel more than hear. He’s washing me, taking care of me. The water stings where my knees have rubbed raw, and my body erupts into an explosion of pins and needles as he massages my limbs.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, or think I say. Maybe the words are only in my head.
He’s quiet, his hands so gentle but his expression so hard. He must be disappointed. I failed the test. Stayed too long, didn’t stay long enough. Did something wrong.
Soft sheets. A pillow. His weight settling beside me, not touching, just there.
The sudden lack of contact makes me feel completely alone again, like when I was on the table.
The tears come silent and hot, sliding down my temples into my hair. He left me alone in bed because I failed and he doesn’t want to touch me now and I’m so sorry, so very sorry—
The mattress shifts. His heavy arm drapes across my waist, pulling me back against solid warmth. His chest against my spine. His breath in my hair.
I’m not alone. I’m safe.
I try to turn, to tell him I’ll do better next time, but my body still won’t listen. My brain is a fog. Sleep pulls at me.
Somewhere in the darkness, I feel him moving then pressure, fullness, the sweet familiar stretch of him sliding inside. Not my ass this time, but my pussy, soft and careful, like he thinks I might break.
I can’t move to meet him, can’t arch my back or do any of the things that usually make him groan, but he doesn’t seem to need me to.
He fucks me slowly, like he’s trying to soothe me. Each thrust feels like a question: Are you here? Are you with me? Are you okay?
And even though I can’t speak, can’t move, my body answers for me, opening to him, taking him deeper.
Yes. Yes. Always yes.
He comes inside me with a shudder and a sound that might be my name. The warmth that floods through me is almost enough to bring me back from wherever I’ve drifted away to.
Almost. The darkness is so soft, and I’m so tired, and he’s still here, still inside me, still wrapped around me like armor. I let myself fall.
34
Vin
After I fuck her, my cock buried deep while she drifts in that hazy space between sleep and waking, I stay inside her, staring into the darkening room. My heart’s still pounding. My wrists throb where the zip ties tore through skin. But none of that matters.
All I can think about is the sight of her when I came through the front door: still on the table exactly where I left her, hours later. Her body trembling, tears streaming down her face, whispering ‘I’m sorry’ like she’d failed me.
Fuckingshefailedme?
I lean away from her, studying her back in the darkness: the curve of her spine, the soft rise and fall of her breathing finally evening out. She’s curled in a ball, and my hand moves before I think about it, massaging her calf, working up to her thigh. Her muscles are still tight, knotted. I knead gently, trying to undo the damage, the damage I caused.
She could’ve gotten down at any time. She could’ve moved, stretched, but she didn’t. Just because I told her to stay?
Jesus Christ. Who is this woman?
I’ve had submissive women before, women who liked it rough, who begged for pain, who got off on being used. But never to the degree that she does, and this? This is different. She didn’t stay on that table because it turned her on. She stayed because she thought that’s what I wanted.
My jaw clenches. I know now I shouldn’t have left her like that. She won’t disobey on purpose unless I explicitly tell her she can, that’s who she is. I’ll do better next time.
Next time?
My hand stills on her hip. There shouldn’t be a next time. I should be planning my exit, not planning how to give her better instructions so she doesn’t hurt herself trying to please me.
“Sophie.” My voice comes out gruff. “Look at me.”
