"I can't…"
"You can." He grinds into me and hits something deep that makes me see stars. "You're mine and you'll give me what I want."
The second orgasm hits without warning, sharper than the first and almost painful in its intensity. I cry out his name and something in Italian I don't remember choosing and sounds that aren't words at all.
He follows, burying himself deep and coming with a groan that sounds like it's torn from his chest. His forehead drops to mine, both of us breathing hard and still connected.
or a long moment neither of us moves. His weight on me. The rope pressing between us. Him still inside me. Our hearts hammering against each other.
Then he presses a kiss to my forehead and eases out of me carefully. His hands find the first knot and he works it open slowly, taking his time.
"How do you feel?"
"Floaty." My voice sounds far away. "Like I'm not entirely in my body."
"That's what I meant earlier about the endorphin release." His hand smooths hair back from my face. "The pressure, the vulnerability, the intensity. Your body processed all of it. It will settle. Just breathe."
"Is that normal?"
"It's the goal." As each rope is removed, he massages the skin beneath, checking for marks and circulation and anything wrong. "Your body trusted the process. That's what it feels like when it works."
The red silk pools on the floor between us. Faint impressions cross my torso, lines that will fade in an hour but that I want to memorize now.
"You did beautifully."
He disappears briefly and returns with a warm washcloth, a glass of water, and a blanket from the foot of the bed.
Those same hands that bound me now clean me with such gentleness that my throat tightens. I let him without protest, without insisting I can manage on my own.
He wraps the blanket around my shoulders, sets the water on the nightstand, and pulls me against his chest.
"Drink."
I drink. Obedient in a way I never am.
When the glass is empty, he sets it aside. I settle against him, my cheek finding the spot over his heart. My fingers trace lazy patterns on his chest, drifting toward sleep.
Then they stop.
There's something under my fingertips — slightly raised, a familiar shape.
I prop myself up and look down at his chest.
A tiny firefly. Right over his heart.
"When did you get this?"
He doesn't answer right away, and the silence carries weight.
"Japan." His voice is stripped bare. "Ten years ago."
Ten years. Before I was pregnant with Chesca. While I was trapped in a marriage that was slowly killing me. He was on the other side of the world, putting a firefly on his skin.
"I remember you calling that before. In college. Firefly."
"Because of your eyes."
The memory surfaces without warning. His voice in a dorm room, a lifetime ago.There. Right there. You've got firefliesin your eyes, and they only come out when you're feeling something real.