He takes my face in his hands. Runs his thumbs under my eyes. Wipes the last of the wet away.
"Say it again."
"I want to come home to you."
"Again."
"I want to come home to you."
His forehead drops to mine.
We breathe like that a second.
"I was cold to you yesterday," he says quiet. "That won't happen again. If I'm mad, I'm going to tell you. If I'm scared, I'm going to tell you. I'm not going to make you guess."
"Okay."
"And you don't get to decide for me what I can survive. Deal?"
"Deal."
"One more."
"What."
"Tell me what you need right now."
My breath catches.
"I need you to put your hands on me and not let go until I'm quiet."
His eyes close a second.
When he opens them, they're the version I saw in the office that first night. Focused. Present. A man who has already made his plan.
"Safe word."
"Revelstoke."
"Good girl."
It drops through me like water finding a crack.
He pulls the shirt over my head. Slow. Tosses it.
My leggings go next. He hooks two fingers in them and slides them off my hips, down my legs, off my ankles, onto the floor. No underwear because I didn't bother when I got up.
I'm naked on his bed and he's still in his jeans and I'm already breathing different.
He kneels down on the floor between my feet.
"Gray."
"Shh."
He lifts my left foot. Kisses the inside of my ankle. Slow. Works his way up. Calf. Knee. Inside of my thigh. Beard againstskin. He takes his time in a way that undoes me more than his hands did two nights ago.
I am not a woman who trembles.
