36. Chapter 36 #2
" I need your opinion," she signs, selecting a few items and heading toward the fitting rooms.
I follow like a man in a trance, my body already responding to the mere thought of Wren in whatever she's chosen. The saleswoman directs us to a private fitting area, larger than the others and tucked away at the back of the store.
Once inside, Wren turns to me, her expression suddenly serious. She sets the lingerie aside and signs: " I meant what I said yesterday. I need to feel in control."
"I know," I say softly. "And I meant what I said too. I'll do anything to make this right."
She studies me for a long moment, her gaze so intense I can almost feel it in my bones. Her eyes tell me everything—she has a plan, and I'm at her mercy.
"Kneel," she rasps.
I sink to my knees without hesitation, looking up at her with complete surrender in my eyes. The fitting room floor is hard beneath my knees, but I don't care. I'd kneel on broken glass if she asked me to.
"I will do anything," I whisper, my voice rough with emotion. "Anything to earn your forgiveness."
She studies me for a long moment, her head tilted slightly.
Then she reaches for the button of her jeans, sliding them down her legs in one fluid motion.
My breath catches as she steps out of them, leaving her in just her simple blue top and a pair of black panties that contrast beautifully with her pale skin.
"Crawl," she says, backing up until she's against the fitting room wall. Her voice is soft and husky and the goddamn sexiest sound in the world.
I hesitate only for a heartbeat before moving forward on my hands and knees, my eyes never leaving hers. The position should feel humiliating, but instead, it feels right—like I'm finally giving her what she needs, what she deserves. Control. Power.
When I reach her, she threads her fingers through my hair, tugging just hard enough to make me gasp. Her eyes are dark with desire and something else—a fierce determination that makes my heart race.
"Tell me why you deserve this," she whispers with a gleam in her eye.
"I don't," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "I don't deserve you at all. But I want to earn it. I want to earn you."
She seems satisfied with my answer, because she hooks her thumbs into her panties and slides them down, stepping out of them and nudging them aside with her foot. The sight of her—half-dressed, exposed to me in this semi-public space—is almost more than I can bear.
"Show me how sorry you are," she says then takes a seat on the small bench against the wall, her meaning unmistakable.
I understand immediately what she wants. I move forward on my knees, positioning myself between her spread thighs. The scent of her arousal hits me, making my mouth water with anticipation.
I look up once more, seeking final permission. She grants it with a slight nod, then tangles her fingers in my hair, guiding me toward her center.
The first taste of her is electric. I groan against her flesh, the vibration making her thighs tense around my head. I use my tongue to trace slow circles around her clit, savoring the way her breathing quickens above me.
Her hand tightens in my hair, directing my movements with gentle pressure. I follow her lead, letting her set the pace, surrendering completely to her control. This isn't about my pleasure—it's about hers. About giving her back the power we took from her.
I flatten my tongue against her, providing firm pressure where she needs it most, then alternate with quick flicks that make her hips buck against my face. I can feel her getting wetter, her arousal coating my chin as I work.
My own body throbs with need, my cock straining painfully against my jeans. I shift slightly, seeking relief, but Wren's foot presses against my thigh in warning. The message is clear: This isn't about me.
I redouble my efforts, sliding two fingers inside her while continuing to work her with my tongue. Her inner walls clench around my fingers as I curl them forward, seeking that spot that I know drives her wild.
When I find it, her reaction is immediate and intense. Her back arches, her hand tightens almost painfully in my hair, and a silent gasp escapes her. I maintain the pressure, stroking that spot in rhythm with the movements of my tongue.
I can tell she's close—her thighs are trembling, her breathing ragged. I look up, wanting to see her face as she comes undone. The sight nearly finishes me: her head thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted in silent ecstasy.
She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
I continue my ministrations, relentless now as I feel her approaching the edge. Her hips move against my face, seeking more pressure, more friction. I give her what she needs, curling my fingers more firmly inside her while sucking gently on her clit.
When she comes, it's with her entire body. Her thighs clamp around my head, her inner walls pulsing around my fingers, her hand pushing me harder against her center. I stay with her through every tremor, every aftershock, until she finally relaxes, boneless, against the bench.
As the aftershocks subside, I start to pull back, but her hand in my hair holds me in place. She looks down at me, her chest still heaving with rapid breaths.
I remain on my knees, my face slick with her arousal, looking up at her with what I know must be naked adoration. She's magnificent like this—flushed with pleasure, eyes bright with power, completely in control.
She releases my hair and her hands raise between us again. " You don't get to come," she signs, her movements deliberate. " And you don't get to clean your face."
I nod, understanding immediately. She wants me to wear the evidence of her pleasure, to carry her scent with me. It's a claiming, a marking, and the thought makes me even harder.
"I am yours," I tell her, my voice raw with emotion. "Completely yours."
She cups my face, her thumb tracing my lower lip in a gesture that's somehow both tender and possessive. I press a kiss to her palm, overcome with feelings I can barely contain.
"You are my queen," I whisper, the words spilling out unbidden. "I will worship at your feet for the rest of my life, not just until you forgive me. I swear it."
Something softens in her expression—not weakness, but a different kind of strength. She helps me to my feet, her hand gentle on my arm. When I'm standing, she leans forward and presses a kiss to my lips, tasting herself on my mouth.
"I believe you," she signs when she pulls back.
She dresses quickly, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. I stand there, still painfully hard, my face still wet from her, watching her transform back into the public version of herself. But now I know what lies beneath—the power, the control, the fierce determination.
When she's fully dressed, she signs: " Ready to go?"
I nod, adjusting myself as discreetly as possible. "Whatever you want."
As we exit the fitting room, the saleswoman gives us a knowing look that I can't quite bring myself to be embarrassed about. Let her think what she wants. Let the whole world see that I belong to Wren, that I'm hers to command.
Wren purchases the lingerie we never even looked at, a small smile playing at her lips as she hands over my credit card. I stand slightly behind her, aware of how I must look—disheveled, my face still glistening, my eyes probably glazed with desire.
When we step back onto the street, Wren turns to me, her expression serious again. " Thank you, " she signs, " for giving me what I needed."
"Always," I promise, taking her hand. "Anything you need, anytime. I'm yours."
She nods, seemingly satisfied, and leads me toward the car. As we walk, I realize something has shifted between us—not just the power dynamic, but something deeper. A new understanding, a new equilibrium.
I don't know if she's forgiven me yet. I'm not sure I deserve forgiveness this quickly. But I do know that whatever happens next, whatever she needs from me—from us—I'll give it to her without hesitation.
Because she is my queen, and I am hers to command. And honestly? I wouldn't have it any other way.