"Hi," I whispered back.
He kissed me then—slow, deep, achingly tender.
A homecoming.
A thank you.
"Can you stand?" he asked when we broke apart. "I want to get you into a bath."
I considered the question seriously.
"No," I admitted with a chuckle. "I don't think so."
His brow furrowed, concern warping his face.
His hands moved over me, checking—hands, feet, shoulders, knees.
No pins. No needles. No tingles.
He let out an exhale, his shoulders relaxing.
Then he rose before bending to lift me—one arm under my knees, the other behind my back—cradling me against his chest as if I weighed nothing.
He carried me out of the playroom, down the hall, and into the bathroom. The tub was already full—steam curling off the surface, the scent of lavender hanging in the air.
"You planned this?"
"I always plan." He lowered me gently into the water, and I groaned as the heat enveloped me. "Aftercare isn't optional. It's the most important part."
He climbed in behind me, settling me between his legs, my back against his chest. The water lapped around us, warm and soothing.
"How do you feel now?" he asked, his lips brushing my ear. "Physically?"
I took inventory. My throat was sore. My hips ached where his fingers had gripped. There was a pleasant tenderness between my thighs that would remind me of tonight every time I moved tomorrow.
"Used," I said honestly. "In the best possible way."
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest into my back. "Good. That was the goal."
His hands found my shoulders, kneading gently. I melted into his touch, closing my eyes as a laugh bubbled up from inside of me.
"What?"
"You should have led with that," I giggled.
"Wha—" Then recognition dawned, and he laughed—a real laugh, bright and startled. "You can't be serious."
"Dead serious." I tilted my head back to look at him, finding amusement dancing in his expression.
"It isn't exactly the same situation."
"How is it not?"
He looked at me like I'd grown ten heads. "You can walk up to ninety percent of men in this world and offer them a blow job and they would whip their dicks out right then and there. But if I were to walk up to a woman and calmly explain how I wanted to tie them up in my sex dungeon, torture them with pleasure, fuck their throats until they cried, and then pound them into oblivion—" he paused, eyebrows raised, "—it would result in a much. Much. Different outcome."
I opened my mouth to argue.
Closed it.
