When he finally moves, it’s not to put his cock away, or to dress himself, but to pull me up, peeling me off the couch and into a standing position. My legs almost give out, and he has to keep me upright, one arm circling my waist, the other under my arm.
I try to say, “I’m fine,” but it comes out as a grunt.
He smiles. “You will be.” His voice is low, and there’s a note in it I’ve never heard from anyone, let alone someone like him. Possession, maybe, or satisfaction. I can’t tell the difference.
He leads me, not to the bedroom but down the hallway, past glass cases of art, past doors that must lead to places I can’t imagine. My knees buckle with every step, the aftermath of what he did to me leaking down my leg. He doesn’t look at me, just keeps me moving with a steady grip and the unspoken threat that if I fall, he’ll pick me up and carry me anyway.
The bathroom is pure money. Marble everywhere, black and white and gray in perfect geometric slabs. The tub is free-standing, a solid white oval big enough for three. The faucet is gold, not brass, and there’s jets circling just below the rim.
He sets me on the edge of a marble bench attached to the tub, and kneels to start the water. His hands are practiced, precise. He runs a finger under the stream, tests it, adjusts the knob by the tiniest amount. His attention to detail is almost absurd. Like he’s making sure not to scald me, but not to coddle either. He wants it perfect.
I sit there, shivering, arms folded around myself. My head feels disconnected from my body. I can still taste him, still feel the weight of his hands on my back, still sense the way he looked at me when I came apart for him.
He turns to face me and stands, wiping his hands on a black towel. I look down at my lap, then at the line of bruises already forming on my thighs.
He says, “You should get in.”
The words are an order, but softer than anything he’s said so far.
I hesitate, but only for a second, then slide off the marble bench and into the tub. The water bites at first, so hot I almost jerk away, but then it’s just right—burning away the soreness, the sweat, the residue of what we did. The heat climbs up my body, seeps into my bones, makes me feel like a new creature.
I sink down until the water laps at my chin. My eyes sting, but I keep them open.
Briar stands there, arms crossed, watching me. His cock is still half-hard, hanging heavy against his thigh, but he doesn’t stroke it, doesn’t touch it. He just watches. Maybe he’s waiting for me to speak. Maybe he just likes the view.
“Is this part of the service?” I murmur, trying to figure him out.
He smirks. “You’ll thank me for it when we go again.”
There’s something in the way he says it that makes me feel less like a victim and more like a… I don’t know. A partner? A prize? I can’t name it.
I sink deeper, until just my nose and eyes are above water. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s loaded, but not threatening. He walks to the cabinet and pulls out a set of small glass bottles. He unscrews one, tips a few drops into the tub. The water clouds, then clears, leaving behind a scent I can’t name. Not lavender, not citrus. Maybe something musky, expensive.
He says, “You need to let your body recover. For an hour at least. Next time won’t be so gentle.”
I want to ask, “From you or from what you made me feel?” but I keep it to myself.
He walks back over, sits on the edge of the tub. He’s close enough that if I reach out, I can touch his knee. I don’t.
Instead, I run my fingers over the water’s surface, watching the way the light bends and warps around them.
“You sure you’ve never done this before?” he asks.
I shake my head.
He nods, like that’s what he expected. “You took it well.”
I want to laugh. “Felt like I was being split open.”
He smiles again, but it’s a different smile. Not the predator, not the conqueror. Something almost human.
“That’s what it’s supposed to feel like,” he says. “First time always hurts.”
I close my eyes. I can still feel the pulse of him inside me, the way my hole stretched to take him, the burn and then the pleasure. I never thought I’d like it, never thought I’d need it again, but even now my cock stirs under the water, eager for more.
“You’re not what I thought you’d be,” I say.
He leans in. “What did you think I’d be?”
