Chapter 17 Processing #2
My hands shook as I found one of his silk ties in the closet. Such a simple thing, but it felt enormous. Gabriel had tied me down so many times, made me helpless, dependent. This reversal felt like rewriting history.
"You're sure?" I asked, kneeling beside him on the bed.
"I trust you, Bunny."
I secured his wrists to the headboard, loose enough that he could slip free if needed. The sight of him willingly vulnerable undid something in me. Tears came without warning.
"Hey," he said softly. "What's wrong?"
"You're letting me have control." I wiped my face, embarrassed. "No one's ever... I've never been the one with power before."
"You have power with me. Always have."
I tested it then. Ran my hands over his chest, his stomach, watching him respond. He was already hard, had been since we started our consent practice, but he made no demands. Just watched me with those steady eyes, letting me lead.
"Can I use my mouth?" I asked.
"God, yes."
I took my time, mapping him with lips and tongue. Found the places that made him gasp, the spots that made him arch. When I finally took him in my mouth, the sound he made was worth every second of anticipation.
I went slow, torturously slow. Not teasing, exactly. More like savoring. Like proving to myself that I could give pleasure because I chose to, not because it was required. His hands flexed in the bonds, but he didn't pull, didn't thrust, didn't take control even though we both knew he could.
"Bunny," he groaned when I did something particularly good with my tongue. "Please..."
"Please what?" I pulled back to ask, thrilling at the role reversal.
"Please don't stop. God, your mouth..."
"Ask nicely."
"Please continue sucking my cock with your perfect fucking mouth."
The crude words in his controlled voice made me shiver. I rewarded him by taking him deep, using every trick I'd been taught but choosing to deploy them. My skills, my choice, my power.
I brought him to the edge over and over, backing off each time he got close. Not cruel, just thorough. Showing both of us that I could read his body, could control the pace, could be trusted with his pleasure.
"Bunny, I'm going to—"
"No," I said firmly, pulling away entirely. "Not yet."
He made a sound between laugh and sob. "You're evil."
"I'm in control." I crawled up his body, straddling his hips. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
I pretended to consider. "Ask me again in ten minutes."
I untied his wrists then, needing his hands on me. He rubbed feeling back into them, then reached for me.
"Can I—"
"Yes," I interrupted. "Whatever you were going to ask, yes."
His hands framed my face, thumbs brushing over cheekbones. "Can I tell you something?"
Not what I'd expected. "Okay."
"You're the strongest person I know. What you've survived, what you're overcoming... It's incredible."
"Nathan—"
"And watching you take control, practice consent, trust yourself... It's the hottest thing I've ever experienced."
I kissed him to stop the words that threatened to break me open. When we finally came together, it was face to face, me above him, setting the pace. His hands on my hips not guiding but following, letting me chase what I needed.
"Tell me what you want," he urged.
"This. You. The choice to have you." I moved faster, chasing sensation. "I want to feel powerful. I want to know I affect you as much as you affect me."
"You destroy me," he said simply. "Every time you choose to trust me, you destroy and rebuild me."
I came with a cry that might have been his name, might have been wordless sound. He followed seconds later, my name definitely on his lips. We collapsed together, sweat-cooling and breathless.
"So," he said eventually. "How was practice?"
I laughed, surprising myself. "Educational. Terrifying. Necessary." I traced patterns on his chest. "I said no to you. Multiple times. And nothing bad happened."
"That's how it's supposed to work."
"I know that intellectually. But knowing and feeling are different things." I propped myself up to see his face. "Thank you. For letting me tie you up. For giving me that trust."
"Thank you for taking it. For using it well."
We lay in comfortable silence as dawn crept across the ceiling. I thought about the nightmare, about drowning in evidence of my supposed failure. But here in the growing light, with Nathan's heartbeat under my hand and the memory of power in my palms, failure felt like the wrong word entirely.
I'd survived. I'd learned to say no. I'd called abuse by its name. I'd taken control and wielded it responsibly. If that was failure, then I'd fail every day for the rest of my life.
"What are you thinking?" Nathan asked.
"That Gabriel's metrics were wrong. Success isn't dying for someone. It's learning to live despite them."
"That's very profound for—" he checked the clock, "—6:23 in the morning."
"I'm a very profound person," I said with mock seriousness. "Failed experiment, successful philosopher."
"C'mere, Socrates."
I curled into him, feeling safer than I'd ever thought possible. Tomorrow there would be more files to review, more evidence to process, more nightmares to navigate. But right now, in this moment, I had everything I needed.
Choice. Voice. The power to say no and the freedom to say yes.
If that wasn't success, I didn't know what was.