But fuck, she looked perfect, bound by my ropes, seconds away from tumbling headfirst into subspace. It’s not hard to imagine her in the exact same position, but without the modesty clothes.
Hopefully, one day I will get to see that.
For now, though, I need to get her down and untied.
After retrieving the red cushion, plus a few others, I place them directly beneath Emmy, arranging them so that once she is down, she will be reclined at a comfortable angle, then I get to work on lowering the supporting ropes. I’ve done this a million times, so I allow my muscle memory to take over, easing her down with slow, controlled movements.
I’m not sure how much longer we can all keep giving her the space and time she needs. But the fact that she asked me for information about us, our history, how we became us, that has to be good, right? She’s trying to fill in the gaps, trying to make sense of our situation, trying to understand how she fits.
She wouldn’t be curious about us if she was done.
At least, that’s what I’m choosing to believe.
It doesn’t take me long to have her down on the pillow. The way her body sags with the cushioning is an indicator of how deeply she has fallen into subspace. If she has gone deep, I have a sneaking suspicion that the chocolate bar and soda I have waiting in my minibar are not going to be enough sustenance for her aftercare.
Pulling out my phone, I order some burritos, then start on the rest of the ropes. I try to keep it as clinical as I possibly can, not allowing my fingers to go on side quests or to linger in place, but it is fucking hard.
I know what that skin feels like. I know what it looks like covered in perspiration, hot and flushed right before she comes. I know what it tastes like.
Sighing at myself, I force my mind back to the task at hand, gently moving her body around so she isn’t left lying on the ropes.
She still hasn’t stirred by the time I start on her arms. Her limbs are cool, but not alarmingly so, and once I have her completely free, I move back down to her feet and begin gently massaging, starting with her toes and working my way back up her legs, making sure to work over any of the skin still holding a rope imprint.
It’s not until my hands are mid-thigh on the second leg that I hear a quiet whimper. Her eyes are still closed, but there is a V between her eyebrows and her fingers twitch with every swipe of my thumb. Dragging my hands back down toward her knee, I reverse and push up, smoothing over the anchor mark that seems to be causing her discomfort.
Emmy’s lashes start to flutter, and she lets out a tired moan.
If this was any other time, if our relationship was a fraction more repaired, I’d have her bundled up in my arms, using my entire body to soothe back the aches as she resurfaces.
But it isn’t and we aren’t, so I barely maintain contact as I skim over her outer thighs and hips before circling her waist and starting to massage again.
Kneeling by the cushion, I use my thumbs to soothe over her ribs, then gather the arm closest to me from where it rests by her shoulder. Stretching it out, I start with her bicep and work my way down past her elbow, forearm, wrist, palm, and fingers, only to have her hand close around mine, halting my movement.
Looking up, I find two hazel eyes watching me. Without breaking eye contact, I resume the massage up her forearm. Her hand falls away from mine, her arm supported by my hands. Once I make it up to her shoulder, I lower her arm to the cushion, stand, and go around to the other side of the cushion, then repeat the process all over again.
Emmy’s eyes never leave me.
I’m not sure if it is one-sided or not, but the swelling tension is oppressive. I focus my attention on my hands, giving this arm what is most likely a little too much attention, but I wasn’t ready for her to be awake yet.
I know we need to talk, but I thought I had a few more minutes to figure out the right words.
When there isn’t a single inch left of her arm to touch, I lower it onto the cushion.
My heart is fucking hammering in my chest as I slowly return my eyes to hers.
The intensity there is so damn overwhelming. She’s locked in on me like it’s the first time we are seeing each other. Like it’s the first time she isreallyseeing me.
Swallowing, I force myself to check in with her, to make sure that she is comfortable and doesn’t need anything while we wait for the food to arrive. “Hey, princess. How are you feeling?”
Emmy doesn’t blink, but her eyes focus on my mouth, watching each word fall from my lips. Her throat works overseveral swallows before she manages a small twitch of a smile. “Floaty but heavy.”
I make myself more comfortable on the floor, leaning into the pillow by her hip. “Are you feeling droppy?”
She shakes her head, eyes sliding shut, a dreamy expression on her face. “No.”
I’m starting to regret not having Hudson here.
Not because I need his help with aftercare, but I have a feeling that a littlegood cop, bad copwould be pretty perfect right now.
