Grace
This isn’t like the other time Nate and I had sex when I was fertile.
That time, my diagnosis had just landed and I was a broken woman who wanted to break even more.
Now, he’s turned my pain into the most potent pleasure I’ve ever known, and his penetration is more than I can handle.
It’s love, pressing into me from above, and there is no way I can reciprocate.
My safe phrase slides from my lips: “I love you.”
I lie still after saying it, blinking tears away.
I don't know if Nate heard me, or if I should say the words again. Shock slackens his features for less than a second, then he’s off me, his hands clawing into his own hair.
The gesture is so out of character that I have the absurd urge to laugh, even as my heart threatens to break.
The urge dies when I see how wide his eyes are.
“I heard your safe phrase,” Nate says, calm despite the anguish in his voice.
He’s mostly naked, trousers caught awkwardly around his ankles, hands falling slowly to his sides.
I wipe away the last of my tears, unsure of what to do now that I’ve triggered this ‘safe phrase’ protocol.
I scoot to the side of the bed, the sheets like sandpaper against my raw, painful bottom.
Nate makes a low noise in his throat, putting up a hand to stop me.
Gone is the man who put me over his knee with the perfectly-controlled darkness he first unleashed, then restrained.
I realise that, in his corrupt way, Nate used pain to give me a chance at redemption.
For what? I want to demand of myself.
But I already know. It was redemption for reaching out to Mother. He confronted me with pain. Then he confronted me again with pleasure. And now, after he tried to get even closer, I’ve called a halt with the words he wants most from me.
And he stopped.
“Nate…” I don’t know what to say.
His nostrils flare as he meets my eyes with unfamiliar vulnerability. “Tell me why you said that, Grace.”
The truth is a crashing wave, filling me to the brim with foaming understanding: Nate has been betrayed by his own devices.
He demanded that I love you be my safe phrase, and now he can’t tell if I was using it to stop what he was doing, or if I was actually declaring my love for him as he tried to breach my final defenses.
“Grace,” he whispers, and I see that his cock has gone flaccid, his hands empty at his sides.
Blood rushes in my ears and I can’t answer him. Not when everything we’ve done is entangled with his coercive care, his insistence on managing every aspect of our lives together. I stare down at my own hands, remembering belatedly that I’m naked, too. I reach for the top sheet, hiding myself.
“Right,” I hear him say, his voice low. “Aftercare. For both of us. Come with me.”
“What do I need to do?” I ask quietly, unsure of the parameters here. “I’m… sore.”
He lets out a pained laugh. “You don’t need to do anything. All you need to do is let me take care of you, like you’ve done before. Come, love.”
I hear what he doesn’t say, the confession within the care: he regrets giving me that safe phrase. Because he already knows the answer to his own question. I try to peer up into his eyes, but he won’t look at me.
“You stopped when I needed you to. I actually didn’t know if you would.”
His expression turns almost alarming. “Of course I stopped. Who the fuck do you think you married?”
I let myself shrug. “The man who left me this morning when I begged him not to.”
The warmth goes out of him as he kicks off his trousers. He takes a step toward me.
“You’ve already apologised,” he says, his voice dropping to a menacing tone, “and you’ve safe-worded. So we’re going to skate right past that provocation, and you’re going to mind me like the gracious girl you are.”
He scoops me up—sheet and all—before I can say a word.
“Okay,” I whisper, settling into his grip with a feeling like a sigh. Like relief and capitulation and trust all rolled into one.
I’m compliant when he bends me tenderly over the bathroom sink to apply a thin layer of arnica to my reddened backside. I murmur with relief as he smooths the lotion over my mortified skin.
“Better, hm?” he murmurs, kissing the back of my neck through my hair.
“Yeah,” I admit, leaning back a little, the sheet falling to our feet on the bathroom tiles. “What’s—what’s next, Nate?”
Next, he slips a terrycloth robe over my shoulders, takes my hand, and leads me back to the reading nook off the living room.
He lights a fire and settles down on the couch beside me with drinks for each of us—hot chocolate for me, a finger of Scotch for himself.
After handing me my cup, he takes my feet on his lap and begins massaging the arches. I almost purr with delight.
“Now, tell me why you needed your safe phrase, Grace.”
Tension creeps back into my body, and I feel the way it hardens my spine. “Sure, I’ll tell you—when you tell me why you freaked out about it. Shouldn’t you have chosen something less… inflammatory?”
His hands go still around my ankle, but his voice is cool and neutral when he answers. “My choice of the safe phrase isn’t important right now. I need to know what I did that made you use it.”
I sip my hot chocolate, made with coconut milk and a drop of vanilla essence—just the way I like it.
“I’m fertile.” It’s not the full explanation, but it’s what I’ve got right now.
“The last time you were fertile, you wanted me to fuck you good and proper. What happened this time, Grace? When we both wanted—needed it. Why did you stop me?”
I’m tempted to voice exactly the thoughts he’s trying to extract from me with a warm drink and a foot massage and that calm look in his eyes. But I’ve given him enough tonight.
I take another sip of hot chocolate and look into the fire, settling into myself.