He carried me the last few steps and set me gently on the closed lid of the toilet in the en suite. The light in there was soft and low, the kind he kept on a dimmer, and he crouched in front of me and got his hands on my face and looked at me properly.
“You good?”
“Yeah.” My voice came out rough and quiet. “Yeah. I'm good.”
“Color?”
“Green.” I blinked at him slowly. “All the way green.”
He pressed his forehead to mine for a beat. Then he stood and turned on the tap and let the water run until it went warm, and I watched him wet a washcloth with the specific careful attention he brought to anything he was doing for someone else.
He came back and knelt between my knees.
He started with my face. The warm cloth pressed gently to my cheek where it had been against the glass, wiping away the fog and the sweat and the faint smear of my own saliva at the corner of my mouth, and he worked slow and methodical, turning the cloth over to find clean fabric, running it down the column of my throat and pausing at the collar.
“Chin up.”
I tipped my head back.
He unbuckled the collar first, fingers working the leather free at the back of my neck, and he set the collar aside on the edge of the tub and took the warm cloth to the skin there too.
His thumb pressed to the side of my throat where the leather had been, warm and grounding, and then he took the warm cloth to the skin there too.
Then he took the warm cloth across my chest, washing away the dried spit he'd left there earlier, the ghost of his hands. Across my stomach. Lower. He cleaned me with the same unhurried attention he'd brought to taking me apart, and the tenderness of it after everything made my throat tighten in a way I didn't try to hide.
“Stand up for me.”
I stood. He steadied me with a hand at my hip.
His fingers found the tops of the stockings where the lace elastic sat against my thighs, and he peeled them down slow, careful not to snag the delicate fabric, rolling each one down my leg until I could step out of it. He set them aside on the counter beside the collar.
The warm cloth moved over the skin of my thighs where the elastic had left faint impressions.
He cleaned between my legs with particular care, and I felt him working through what he'd left inside me with unhurried patience, and when he was done he pressed a kiss to the inside of my hip and stood back up.
“Sit,” he said.
I sat back down on the toilet lid.
He cleaned himself quickly and then he held out both hands and pulled me back to my feet.
“Bed.”
He walked me out of the bathroom with one arm around my waist, and I leaned into him the whole way. On the dresser, he stopped. He picked up the collar and the cuffs and the chain from where he'd left them scattered, and he arranged them together on the soft leather tray where he kept his watch, folded neat, and set the paddle on top beside them.
Like he was putting something valuable away.
He turned out the overhead light.
The bed was cool against my back when he laid me down, and he pulled the duvet up over both of us and got his arm under my shoulders and settled me against his chest with the practiced ease of a man who had figured out the geometry of this a while ago. My head fit under his chin. His hand spread warm across the center of my back.
The curtains in the neighboring house had stayed closed. Beyond the window the night had gone fully dark, and the only light in the room now was the soft yellow spill from the lamp on the far nightstand.
I pressed my face into his chest and breathed.
“I love you,” he said against my hair.
I lifted my head to look at him.
