AN: Thank you so much for all the wonderful feedback, for reading and reviewing. I'm grateful to you all for sticking with the story (and the unconventional pairing). Stay tuned for a Medieval take on Fifty Shades, this time with a more canonical pairing!
Epilogue
Taylor tests my restraints before I'm permitted to stand. His hands are gentle but purposeful and I don't get more than a hum of approval to reassure me that I've done well by keeping still for so long. Here is proof that if I want something badly enough, he'll find a way to give it to me. Leather, he told me once, isn't his thing; he prefers metal or rope, the latter of which he knots with careful intent only if we have a couple of hours to spare. I prefer the leather; I enjoy the way it slides against my wrists and ankles, the sharp bite when I struggle - mostly, I enjoy the way he reacts when he comes over and sees me wearing the collar, D-link hanging loose in front, ready to be hooked on his finger as he draws me in for a kiss.
He takes me like that, my back against the wall and my hands locked together. His biceps tighten as he holds my hips; it's just as well he's so strong, because usually by this point I'm too dazed to be much help. I like when we finish like this. He's been hard since he got me off with the vibrator twenty minutes ago, his skin flushed and glistening, his fingers just this side of too rough. I try to contract around him, to pull him into me as his thrusts lose their rhythm, but I can't. I settle for urging him on with my lips against his neck, worrying the bite I left there last night. Taylor shudders, driving hard and fast into me - and then stills.
It's long moment before he sets me down, his body still pressing me into the wall, his lips at my temple. I feel undone, unfettered for all that my wrists are bound and he's the one who holds the key to my release. He kisses my hair. "You're amazing." I take the compliment with a grin and a quiver. It's not the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me, but knowing I've pleased him means more than any cheesy love poem.
Later, after he's freed my hands and we're settled comfortably in bed, I watch his chest rise and fall, his nostrils flaring. The adorable little crow's feet at the corners of his eyes are deepening by the month; I think they give his face a great deal of character. I burrow closer against his side. Submissives aren't the only ones who need a little tender care in the aftermath. "On a scale of one to ten," I start.
He cuts me off: "twenty-seven."
"You don't even know what I was going to ask!" I protest, pinching his nipple between thumb and forefinger. I like it when he laughs, when he's happy because he's made me happy.
The mattress springs squeak as he turns to face me. "I liked it very much. Especially when you were doing all the work." I can't tell if he's kidding; it was my idea to have him kneel above me once he'd bound my wrists. I'd seen it done at the club and it looked like something I'd be good at. I was. Taylor reaches for my collar.
"Wait. Can I wear it for a little while longer?"
He doesn't like me sleeping with it on, afraid I'll choke in my sleep. We've had this argument before. "It looks good on you," he tells me, backing off. He trusts that I know what I'm doing, which may be more confidence than is warranted. I don't tell him that.
I still go to the club sometimes: with Taylor or by myself, depending on the mood. He works nights from time to time, depending on the assignment, and if I've had a bad day I need some way to wind down that doesn't involve getting drunk at home and calling his cell to complain about my boss. The club is my safe haven. I'll only participate if Taylor is with me, but Steph is there to entertain me with gossip even if he's not. She's never short on stories about fellow patrons and somehow she always knows who's dating whom, who's just there to mess around and who I should steer well clear of.
"You're thinking very loudly," Taylor mumbles, stroking the wings of my shoulders. "Everything okay?"
"I'm not dropping," I answer, because I know he worries. He always will, even if we switch it up sometimes, even if I'm the one to ask for the more adventurous roleplay. I'll never stop being the girl he watched leave Christian's penthouse in tears; I've gotten used to our shared history playing a part in this relationship. "There's something you should know." I brush the hair out of my eyes as I roll over onto my back. This needs to be said and it won't happen with Taylor in my personal space, all inviting and warm like a human furnace.
He waits me out. The downside to sleeping together every night is that I've revealed all my tells; he knows me better than Kate by now. I sigh and blur out: "Christian was at the Ruby the last time I went." That was two nights ago and there's been plenty of time for me to tell Taylor about it.
Pillow talk's probably not the best way to bring up my ex-boyfriend - and his ex-employer - but Taylor being Taylor, he won't let me mull it over for long. "Who was he with?" We've had the talk about Christian's past already, both of us skirting around the specifics so as to protect his wretched trust. I know now that some of his previous submissives left in similar circumstances to my own pitiful breakup. I know that others suffered worse. His record isn't nearly as clean as he pretends. I also know that we were all chosen to mend something that was broken inside Christian many, many years ago; that it's not love he minded from us, but the sense of obligation that tends to develop in any committed relationship. Apparently it reminded him of another woman who wronged him. The more sinister details I refuse to consider when I'm cocooned in Taylor's bed, his collar around my neck.
"No one," I tell him. "He came alone and he... he got a room upstairs with Taro."
"I thought Taro did only-" I watch realization dawn across Taylor's face. "Oh."
"Yeah. Steph said he's come by before. Always alone, always looking like he's afraid of getting jumped." Part of me wonders if he's been coming by the club to look for me, but I know that's silly. He has my number. He can call if he wants to meet up. Or he can answer my text messages. The rest of me knows full well that he's no longer my responsibility.
Taylor shifts to lie on his belly, head pillowed on his arm, his free hand lazily playing with my hair. "He'll be okay."
"You keep saying that about him," I grumble. "Did you read his future in his palm or something, Taylor?"
"Or something." His hand cups my cheek. "When are you going to start calling me Jason, Miss Steele?"
I grin. "That depends. When are you going to start calling me ma'am again?"
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Well, I did have this fantasy about Kevin Costner in Bodyguard..."
The rest of my quip is lost to the warm pressure of his lips on mine. We're too wrung out for more, but I know he'll be at my side tomorrow when I wake up in the morning and I know he'll kiss me before I leave for work. And tomorrow night, we'll go back to my place and revert to our baser natures all over again. One year on, I think I could've done a lot worse as far as a rebound; I don't regret any of it.