41. Emma
Chapter forty-one
Emma
Awareness returned in pieces.
First, warmth—something thick wrapped around my shoulders, cocooning me.
Then touch—a thumb stroking my cheek in slow, steady sweeps.
Then sound—a voice, low and tender, murmuring words I couldn't quite make out.
I blinked.
The world was blurry.
Soft at the edges.
Like looking through frosted glass.
"There she is."
Damien's face swam slowly into focus.
He sat cross-legged on the sheepskin rug, my head cradled gently in his hands.
At some point he'd lowered me down.
Unbound the ropes.
Wiped the drool from my chin.
The vibrator was gone.
Only the harness remained around my chest—loosened now, barely there—and the blanket wrapped around my trembling body.
"Hey," he murmured, thumb tracing the curve of my cheek. "Welcome back."
I tried to speak. Nothing came out.
"Shh. Don't try to talk yet." He reached behind him and produced a water bottle, already uncapped. "Smalli sips. Slow."
He brought it to my lips, tilting gently, and I drank. The cool liquid soothed my ravaged throat, and I nearly moaned at the relief.
"Good," he whispered. "That's it. A little more."
I drank until he pulled the bottle away, setting it aside.
"How do you feel?"
How did I feel?
The question, impossibly complex.
I felt hollowed out.
Remade.
"Floaty," I finally managed, my voice barely a whisper. "Like... I'm not all the way back yet."
"That's normal." His thumb resumed its gentle strokes. "It takes time to come back."
I blinked at him, trying to process. "How long was I...?"
"About ten, maybe fifteen minutes." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Felt longer, though. For both of us."
Tears pricked at my eyes.
"Hey, hey." Damien shifted, gathering me into his lap, blanket and all. I curled against his chest like a child, tucking my head beneath his chin. His arms wrapped around me—solid, warm, safe. "It's okay. Let it out. Whatever you're feeling, let it out."
The tears came then. Not sobs—just a quiet, steady leak down my cheeks. I didn't even know what I was crying about.
The intensity?
The vulnerability?
The overwhelming safety of being held by someone who'd seen every broken, desperate, beautiful part of me and wanted me anyway?
"You were incredible," Damien murmured against my hair. "So fucking incredible, Emma. Do you have any idea?"
I shook my head weakly.
His arms tightened. "I've never seen anything more beautiful in my entire life."
A fresh wave of tears spilled over.
"I've got you," he whispered. "I've got you. You're safe. You did so well."
We stayed like that for a long time. Minutes, maybe. Or hours. Time had gone slippery again, impossible to hold.
He showered words of praise along with his kisses.
Eventually, the tears slowed. The trembling eased. I became aware of smaller things—the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath my ear, the warmth of his skin against mine.
"Better?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yeah. I think so."
"Good." He pressed a kiss to my temple. "There's one more thing we need to do."
I looked up at him, confused.
His hand found my braid—still secured, still wrapped with the burgundy ribbon he'd tied what felt like a lifetime ago. His fingers found a small bow at the end, tugged gently.
"Remember what I said? About how you'd know when we were done?"
The ribbon slid free.
Slowly, carefully, he unwound it from my hair. Then his fingers worked through the braid itself, loosening each twist, separating the strands until my hair fell around my shoulders.
"There," he said softly, tucking a curl behind my ear. "Now we can be us again."
"Damien," I breathed—his name, not his title.
"Emma." He smiled. "Hi."
"Hi," I whispered back.
He kissed me then—slow, deep, achingly tender.
A homecoming.
A thank you.
"Can you stand?" he asked when we broke apart. "I want to get you into a bath."
I considered the question seriously.
"No," I admitted with a chuckle. "I don't think so."
His brow furrowed, concern warping his face.
His hands moved over me, checking—hands, feet, shoulders, knees.
No pins. No needles. No tingles.
He let out an exhale, his shoulders relaxing.
Then he rose before bending to lift me—one arm under my knees, the other behind my back—cradling me against his chest as if I weighed nothing.
He carried me out of the playroom, down the hall, and into the bathroom. The tub was already full—steam curling off the surface, the scent of lavender hanging in the air.
"You planned this?"
"I always plan." He lowered me gently into the water, and I groaned as the heat enveloped me. "Aftercare isn't optional. It's the most important part."
He climbed in behind me, settling me between his legs, my back against his chest. The water lapped around us, warm and soothing.
"How do you feel now?" he asked, his lips brushing my ear. "Physically?"
I took inventory. My throat was sore. My hips ached where his fingers had gripped. There was a pleasant tenderness between my thighs that would remind me of tonight every time I moved tomorrow.
"Used," I said honestly. "In the best possible way."
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest into my back. "Good. That was the goal."
His hands found my shoulders, kneading gently. I melted into his touch, closing my eyes as a laugh bubbled up from inside of me.
"What?"
"You should have led with that," I giggled.
"Wha—" Then recognition dawned, and he laughed—a real laugh, bright and startled. "You can't be serious."
"Dead serious." I tilted my head back to look at him, finding amusement dancing in his expression.
"It isn't exactly the same situation."
"How is it not?"
He looked at me like I'd grown ten heads.
"You can walk up to ninety percent of men in this world and offer them a blow job and they would whip their dicks out right then and there.
But if I were to walk up to a woman and calmly explain how I wanted to tie them up in my sex dungeon, torture them with pleasure, fuck their throats until they cried, and then pound them into oblivion—" he paused, eyebrows raised, "—it would result in a much. Much. Different outcome."
I opened my mouth to argue.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"Okay," I conceded, "you might have a point."
"Might?"
"A small one." I held up my thumb and forefinger, barely a centimeter apart. "Tiny."
He snorted. "The police report would disagree."
A laugh burst out of me, echoing off the tile. "Oh my god. Stop."
"'Yes, officer, I was just explaining my sex dungeon to this nice woman at the coffee shop—'"
"Stop." I was shaking with laughter now, water sloshing against the sides of the tub. "That's not—you wouldn't—"
"'I don't understand why she's crying, I was very polite about the throat-fucking—'"
"Damien!"
He was grinning—that full, devastating grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I'm just saying. Context matters."
"Fine." I twisted in his arms, turning to face him properly. "Context matters. You win."
"I usually do."
I rolled my eyes. "And the humility. Truly inspiring."
"I'm a humble man." He tucked a wet strand of hair behind my ear, his expression softening. "I just happen to also be right most of the time."
"Most of the time?" I repeated dryly.
"Ninety-seven percent."
"That's very specific."
"I did the math."
I stared at him—this ridiculous, brilliant, infuriating man who had just taken me apart piece by piece and was now making me laugh so hard my stomach hurt.
"I love you," I said. "Even when you're insufferable."
"Especially when I'm insufferable," he corrected, pulling me closer. "That's when I'm most charming."
"That's not how that works."
"It's absolutely how that works." He kissed the tip of my nose. "You just admitted you love me while calling me insufferable. I rest my case."