"He gave me an invoice."
"What's the price."
"Doing right by you."
Her eyes go soft. Just a flicker. Then the corner of her mouth lifts.
"Poor baby."
I walk over. Sit on the other end of the couch. Don't touch her. Don't need to yet.
"So," she says.
"So."
"That different conversation."
"Yeah."
She sets the whiskey down.
Looks at me.
"I want you to know what I know about myself, Gray. So you don't have to guess."
"Okay."
"I've done this before. Not like this. Not with a man like you. But I've knelt for someone and I've been rope-marked and I know what a safe word is and I know the difference between someone who plays at it and someone who lives it."
"Yeah."
"You live it."
"Yeah."
"How long since you did."
"Two years."
"Why."
"Because the last person I was supposed to protect died and I decided I wasn't going to be trusted with anything precious again."
Her breath catches. Small. Barely there.
"That's a lot to put in a weekend."
"It's a lot to put anywhere."
She reaches across the couch. Slow. Takes my hand.
Turns it over in hers. Runs her thumb along the line across my forearm, up past the wrist, along the callus at the base of my thumb.
"Then let's not put it in a weekend," she says. "Let's put it in tonight."
I look at her hand on mine.
I look at her.
