Another sound slips from her lips, and it lands lower this time. Not just because of the sound itself, but because of what it means. The way she’s letting herself stay right here. Open. Present. Allowing touch without flinching, without preparing for the moment it might ask something from her in return.
That’s what shifts something inside me.
When Max first arrived, she never stopped moving. Phone to laptop. Laptop to phone. Fixing something. Solving something. Her mind never rested, never powered down. And I hated watching it. Hated how she couldn’t seem to give herself permission to stop.
So when I see her spiraling, when the tension creeps back into her shoulders and her thoughts start racing ahead of her body, I turn off the wifi and blame it on the mountains. The remoteness.
The truth is simpler: I like my women rested when they’re with me. I like their minds quiet and attentive. Tuned into me the way I’m tuned into them.
For Max, I needed her to remember what it feels like to be held in the moment instead of managing it. To let someone else take the weight, even if only for a while.
“You scare me, Bear,” she says softly.
“Why?” I ask.
“You make me want to…” Her words trail off, unfinished, hanging between us.
Stay, I think.
Say you want to stay.
“You make me want to experience things I haven’t wanted in a long time,” she finishes quietly. “Not in ten years.”
“Roll over for me, Mama,” I say, calm but still assertive.
She does it without hesitation.
I lean in, press a kiss to the nape of her neck, slowly, then bite her shoulder just enough to make her gasp. I remember what she likes. She likes her touch with a littleteeth.
“Good girl.”
Another moan.
“You’re so pretty,” I whisper.
I usually keep some distance between us when I’m giving a massage. Fabric. Barriers. Something to ease the closeness.
Not with her.
With Max, I wanted access. All of it.
Her skin is dark and warm beneath my hands, silk over muscle, and I have to fight the urge to lose myself in it. To lick her all the way to the center.
But not yet.
I pour more oil into my palms, spread it along her back, working it in like I’m imprinting myself there.
“Why ten years?” I ask, my hands never stopping.
And I know I’ve earned her trust by the way she answers. No pause, no filtering. Just truth.
“He broke my heart,” she says easily, “and stole work I spent years building. He made a fortune off it.”
“Wow,” I mutter, because it’s the only thing that fits.
“Exactly,” she whispers.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” I say, and there’s no condescension in my tone. “You deserved better.”
