Chapter 9 Control #2
He hummed understanding against my skin, switching to the other breast, building sensation like laying bricks for a foundation I'd never had. My hands found his hair, holding him close, marveling at the permission to direct.
"Can I lay you back?"
"On the bed?"
"On the bed. But you stay in control. If you want to stop, we stop. If you want to change positions, we change. This is yours."
"Mine." I tasted the word as he guided me back against pillows that smelled like sleepless nights and careful isolation. "I've never had a mine in this context."
"You do now."
He stretched out beside me, not covering me with his weight, not caging me in. Just present, patient, tracing patterns on my stomach that made muscles jump and flutter.
"Can I go lower?"
"I—" Panic fluttered. "What if I do it wrong?"
"There's no wrong. There's just what feels good for you."
"But Gabriel said—"
"Gabriel lied." Simple, certain. "Can I show you?"
I nodded, not trusting words. His hand slipped beneath cotton, finding me already wet—my body responding even as my mind struggled to catch up.
"So responsive," he murmured. "Is this okay?"
"Yes. But—slow. Please. I need slow."
"Whatever you need."
His fingers learned me like a new language, patient with my stuttering responses. Gabriel had touched me to prove points, to punish or reward or train. This was different. This was just because I felt good, because I deserved to feel good, because my pleasure mattered for its own sake.
"There?" he asked when I gasped.
"There. God, there."
"Tell me what you need."
"I don't know. I've never—it was always about what he needed."
"Not him. You. What do you need?"
"More. Less. Both." I laughed, edged with tears. "I don't have words for this."
"Then we'll find them together."
He circled that spot that made light bloom behind my eyelids, building something I'd felt before but never like this. Never chosen, never mine, never without the weight of performance.
"Can I use my mouth?"
The question broke something in me. "People don't—not for me—that's what I do for them to make them—"
"Can I use my mouth?" he repeated, patient as sunrise.
"Yes. God, yes. Please."
He shifted down the bed, removing the last barrier between us with careful hands. I wanted to close my legs, hide, perform the modesty that had been beaten into me. But his hands on my thighs were gentle, encouraging but not forcing.
"Beautiful," he said again. "Can I taste you?"
"No one's ever—just for me—"
"Can I be the first?"
"Yes." It came out sob-adjacent. "Yes, please."
The first touch of his tongue rewired my nervous system. Not because of the sensation—I'd learned to manufacture pleasure from far less. But because it was for me. No transaction, no performance, no purpose except making me feel good.
"Oh," I gasped. "Oh, that's—"
He hummed against me, the vibration making me arch. His hands stayed gentle on my thighs, not restraining but supporting, reminding me I could close them if I wanted, could stop this if I needed.
I didn't need. I needed more, needed this revolutionary act of receiving without giving, of being the center instead of the tool.
"I'm—" The feeling built different than I was used to. Usually, climax was a switch—flip it on command, perform on cue. This was gradual, inevitable, mine. "Nathan, I'm—"
"Let go," he said against me. "I've got you."
The permission undid me. I came apart with a sound that was half sob, half revelation, my body claiming something that had always been taken. He worked me through it, gentle and steady, until I pushed at his shoulders.
"Too much," I gasped.
He immediately pulled back, pressing kisses to my thighs instead. "Good?"
"I don't—I can't—" Tears came then, years of them. "It's never been like that. Never for me. Never because I wanted—"
"Hey." He moved up to hold me, gathering my shaking form against his chest. "It's okay. You're okay."
"I'm not okay. I'm crying after an orgasm like some broken—"
"Like someone reclaiming their body." He stroked my hair. "That's not broken. That's healing."
I cried harder, grieving the girl who'd learned to come on command, who'd been taught her pleasure was currency, not birthright. Nathan held me through it, murmuring nonsense about strength and survival and deserving good things.
When the storm passed, I found myself straddling his lap, his hands loose on my hips, my face buried in his neck.
"Better?" he asked.
"Different." I pulled back to see his face. "You're still—" I gestured at his obvious arousal.
"I'm fine."
"But—"
"Bunny." He cupped my face. "This isn't a transaction. You don't owe me anything."
"What if I want to?"
"Then you can. But only if you want to. Not because you think you should."
I shifted against him experimentally, watching his pupils dilate. "I want to try. But—my way? My speed?"
"Your show." His hands stayed loose, letting me lead. "What do you need?"
"You. Inside me. But—" I bit my lip. "I need to control it. The pace, the depth, everything."
"Then take what you need."
I rose up on my knees, positioning myself, then hesitated. "Condom?"
"In your nightstand drawer."
I laughed—slightly hysterical but genuine. "You hoped this would happen."
"I hoped to be prepared if it did." He watched me retrieve one, roll it on him with hands that shook only slightly. "Still good?"
"Still terrified." I positioned myself again. "But the good kind. I think."
"Take your time."
I sank down slowly, inch by careful inch, cataloguing how different it felt when I chose the angle, the speed, the everything. Nathan's hands clenched on my hips but didn't guide, didn't rush, didn't take control.
"Oh," I breathed when he was fully inside. "This is—"
"Tell me."
"Mine." I rolled my hips experimentally. "This is mine. My choice, my pace, my—oh god."
"That's it." His voice had gone rough, but his hands stayed gentle. "Take what you need."
I found a rhythm that belonged to no training, no performance, no purpose except pleasure. Nathan watched me with something like awe, letting me use his body for my own discovery.
"You're in control," he said when I faltered. "This is yours. You're in control now."
The words broke something else in me, some last wall Gabriel had built. I moved faster, chasing a feeling that was entirely mine, tears streaming down my face from the terrible freedom of it.
"I'm—again—Nathan—"
"Yes." His thumb found where we joined, adding sensation that made me keen. "Come for me. Because you want to. Because you choose to."
I shattered, the orgasm different from the first—deeper, fuller, earned through my own agency. Nathan followed, my name on his lips like a prayer instead of ownership.
I collapsed against his chest, shaking. He held me, still inside me, stroking my back as I pieced myself back together in a new configuration.
"I did that," I whispered.
"You did."
"I chose that."
"You did."
"It was mine."
"It was." He pressed a kiss to my temple. "How are you feeling?"
"Like a person." The words came out wondering. "Like a real person who gets to want things and have them. Is this what normal people feel?"
"I don't know about normal. But it's what you deserve to feel."
I pulled back to see his face. "We have to kill people in three hours."
"We do." He smiled slightly. "But that doesn't negate this. You get to be both—the weapon and the woman. The killer and the person who deserves gentle mornings."
"Gabriel would hate this."
"Good." He traced my spine. "What do you need now?"
"A shower. Food. Maybe more crying." I considered. "And to lie here for just a few more minutes, feeling like I own my own body."
"Then that's what we'll do."
We stayed there, two damaged things learning wholeness through each other. In three hours, we'd paint Pier 47 red. But for now, in the morning light with tears drying on my cheeks and choices blooming in my chest, I was just Bunny.
Not his Bunny. Not anyone's.
Mine.