Chapter 8 Craving Contact #2
"Doctor." My voice broke. "Please. I want—I want to come home. Want to be in your bed. Want you to—"
"Want me to what?"
"Want you to make me yours." The words came out in a rush. "Completely. Want to stop pretending this is just research. Want to stop fighting something that feels—"
He kissed me before I could finish. Deep and claiming and nothing like the careful control he usually maintained. I could taste myself on his tongue, could feel his need in the way his hands shook as they freed my wrists.
"Come for me," he commanded against my lips. "Come now, just from this. Show me how good you can be."
And I did. The combination of his kiss, his command, and seven days of desperate need crashed together in an orgasm that felt like dying. I convulsed against him, only his weight keeping me grounded as wave after wave rolled through me.
"Good girl," he murmured, working me through it with gentle touches. "Such a good girl. So perfect for me."
When I finally stilled, he removed the blindfold. I blinked against the soft light, finding his face inches from mine. He looked wrecked—hair mussed, pupils blown, that perfect control in tatters.
"Hi," I whispered stupidly.
"Hello, baby." He traced my cheek with fingers that trembled slightly. "Ready to come home?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. He freed my ankles, then gathered me up like I weighed nothing.
I should have protested being carried like a child.
Instead, I buried my face in his neck and breathed him in—expensive cologne and clean skin and something indefinable that meant safety in ways I couldn't examine.
His room was nothing like mine. Dark woods and navy walls, massive bed with grey sheets that probably cost more than my rent. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed a view I hadn't known existed—mountains and forest and sky full of stars.
"We're really in the middle of nowhere," I said against his throat.
"Hours from civilization." He set me on the bed, which was even softer than it looked. "Does that frighten you?"
"It should."
"But?"
"But I haven't wanted to leave for weeks." The admission came easier in the darkness of his room. "Even when the door was unlocked. Even when I hated you. I didn't want to leave."
"I know." He pulled back the covers, gesturing for me to get in. "That terrified me too."
I slid between sheets that smelled like him, watching as he moved around the room. He brought water, making me drink despite my protests. Found a soft t-shirt that drowned me in fabric. Performed these small acts of care with the same intensity he brought to everything.
When he finally joined me in bed, I didn't know what to expect. More sex? Clinical documentation of my responses? Instead, he simply pulled me against him, my back to his chest, and held me like I was precious.
"Sleep," he murmured into my hair. "You're safe."
"Am I?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
"From everything but me." His arm tightened around my waist. "And yourself. But those are battles for tomorrow."
"What happens tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, we stop pretending this is just research." His lips found the nape of my neck, pressing a kiss there that felt like a promise. "Tomorrow, we figure out what we really are to each other."
"And tonight?"
"Tonight, you're just my good girl who came home." His hand found mine, threading our fingers together. "That's enough."
It shouldn't have been. Should have sent me running to whatever exit I could find. Instead, I relaxed into his hold, letting his warmth seep into places that had been cold for seven days. Maybe seven years. Maybe forever.
"Gabriel?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you for coming back."
He was quiet for so long I thought he'd fallen asleep. Then: "I never left, baby. I watched every minute. Watched you curl up with that rabbit and try to self-soothe. Watched you pace and cry and rage. Watched you discover truths about yourself in the silence."
"That's creepy."
"That's love."
The word hung between us, too big for what we were. Too real for doctor and subject, captor and captive, whatever twisted thing we'd become.
"You can't love me," I whispered. "You don't even know me."
"I know you put everyone else's needs first until you snap. Know you use anger to hide fear and sarcasm to hide pain. Know you haven't felt safe enough to be soft since you were very young." His voice dropped lower. "Know you're the first person to make me forget my own rules."
"That's not love. That's obsession."
"With you? They're the same thing."
I should have argued. Should have pointed out how unhealthy this was, how twisted we'd become in this pink prison turned navy sanctuary. Instead, I turned in his arms, finding his face in the darkness.
"I think I might be obsessed with you too."
"I know," he said simply. Then he kissed me, soft and careful, like I might break. Like I hadn't already broken and reformed a dozen times under his hands.
When we finally settled again, his breathing evening out into sleep, I lay awake listening to his heartbeat. Steady and sure, like everything about him except when it came to me.
The collar pressed against my throat, initials that belonged to someone I was still becoming. But for the first time, it didn't feel like imprisonment.
It felt like coming home.
"Good night, Bunny," the AI whispered, so soft I might have imagined it. "Sweet dreams."
And for once, they were.