She's back. And maybe this time, he won't fuck things up and she'll stay.
They're in the bedroom, taking an afternoon snooze. Well, Dana probably is. He's too wired and scared and exultant to sleep; he wants to feel every second of her snuggled against him, her breath warm on his shoulder.
"Greg . . ." Her fingers stroke his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."
But it takes a little more persuasion and finally, an Ativan with some water to get him to relax. Dana keeps hold of his hand the whole time, and when he lies down she curls up against him. The feel of her gives him hope—spurious, possibly. But he can't help it.
"Tell me what you're thinking," she says after a time. Her voice is soft in the quiet room. He trails his fingertips over her arm, up and down, almost an absent gesture, but he is intensely aware of the heat and softness of her under his touch.
"Tie me up." The words come out before he can stop them. She lifts her face to his, her grey eyes searching in the soft shadows. Then she nods.
There's a set of blue silk ties in the top drawer of the nightstand. She'd bought them some time ago, and even after the accident he couldn't bring himself to get rid of them. Now he's glad he didn't.
With care she helps him undress, then binds his wrists and ankle to the five-point harness hidden beneath the mattress—a piece of hardware they'd agreed on for both households. When she reaches his truncated leg, she takes what's left of his thigh in her hands and holds it. Her touch is so gentle, and yet there's no pity or coddling. When she reaches for a small pillow and tucks it in place, he relaxes with a silent sigh. He still has trouble with muscle spasms at times. Support will help; she knows it and is okay with that knowledge.
There's a flogger in the drawer too, a gift she'd given him along with the ties. Before she uses it, she takes off her clothes and lets them drop to the floor—unimportant barriers to what's real, what's no longer between them. Then she leans down and kisses him, a scorcher that puts to shame all the fantasies he's kept in his secret heart since he pushed her away. When it ends, she draws in a breath and he feels her tremble just a little, and it hits him that she's as scared and excited as he is. Now they are equals, even if he's the one who's bound and passive.
"Are you ready?" she whispers. He looks up at her.
"Yeah . . . yeah. You?"
Her smile glimmers in the shadowed room. "Oh yes."
It's a familiar routine now—the feel of the doeskin thongs as they gently slap and trail over his chest and belly; the touch of her lips and tongue on his nipples, just above his navel, and then the root of his penis as it starts to rise. After further stimulation she puts some oil in her palm and works him. He arches his back and moves with her, and knows that odd, familiar sense of relief that in this moment, he can allow her to be the one in control. When his release comes it rolls through him like a great wave, sweet and slow. He hears Dana's voice in his ear as she whispers his name, and it's like his music—something he's never known with anyone else, a bright spark that opens his heart and brings out the emotion he's always so careful to keep hidden.
"You didn't get anything from this," he says later, when she's freed him and lies in his embrace under the quilt. Dana puts her hand on his chest.
"I don't think that's true." She rubs him gently.
"What could you possibly . . ." He falls silent when she kisses him.
"I was able to see you. All of you, with just me and you, no sessions, no analysis. It's . . . it's been a long time and I . . ." To his dismay he hears tears in her words. Again? She's crying again? "I didn't think I'd ever see you this way . . ."
"Hey, come on." Now he feels helpless. "You're not supposed to cry after sex, dammit."
That earns him a somewhat watery laugh. "Who told you that?"
They lie together for a while, content just to be close. Gradually Dana's breathing slows, deepens; she's asleep. Greg looks down at her. It's easy now to see the dark smudges under her eyes, the lines of weariness etched in her features. She's suffered because of him, and yet here she is. Her trust and love both humble and terrify him. He knows he's not worth any of it. But he'll take it all the same.
It's growing dark when she wakes up and stretches a little, then lifts her head and kisses the hinge of his jaw. His belly takes the opportunity to rumble. Dana chuckles.
"Want to order in?"
"You brought provisions." He cups her breast.
"You'd rather have pizza and onion rings. And beer." She settles into his touch.
"Right now I'd rather have you."
This time he's the one who does the giving, though he also receives the immense privilege of exploring her body while he does so. When he reaches her core, her hands come to rest on his shoulders. She makes a noise, something between a little ragged moan and a sigh, that goes straight through him. So he brings her to the edge twice, then topples her over and enjoys her shudder as she climaxes and calls his name.
They end up in the shower together. He has to sit on the built-in bench, but Dana just takes on the chore of getting him clean while he fondles her soapy curves; she helps him towel off and get dressed too, as matter of fact and casual as if she's been doing it for years.
"I'm not your dad," he reminds her as she offers him a clean tee shirt.
"Thank god for that." She pulls on her leggings. "I'm not into Oedipal relationships. Or Freud's theories. Are you still ordering from the same place?"
"You're used to caring for someone. I don't—" He stops, uncertain what to say that won't drive her away again.
"Greg." She comes up to him, sits beside the chair so they're eye to eye. "This situation is completely different than the one with mon pere. He was my father and required my care. I loved him, but also felt obligated. I don't feel that way with you. I want to be here." She smiles at him. He reaches out to touch her cheek.
"You—you're sure."
She nods. "Yes. Are you?"
He studies her face. After a few moments he nods. "Yeah."
They find Wilson's note. Greg rolls his eyes, but he's pleased. Dreads and the girl are gone for the weekend too, so no one will show up to bother them. He glances over at Dana, who's on the phone with the pizza place. He's still tempted to pinch himself to see if this is really happening. Then she looks at him and smiles, and his worry fades a little.
Later on, after they've eaten their fill and had enough beer to make them both a little buzzed and content, he dares to ask "Tell me what happens after the weekend."
Dana rests her head on his shoulder. "We need to get more firewood."
"I meant you and me."
Her hand comes to rest on his arm. "I have to go back to Philadelphia. But you could come with me, if you like." She hesitates. "About Thanksgiving . . ."
"Go on," he prompts when she doesn't continue.
"If . . . if you want me to come over . . . what shall I bring?"
Her question silences him for several moments. "If I want you to come over." A surge of anxiety makes him snap the words out. "So all this was some exercise—"
"Greg." She puts her hand over his. "No. What I mean is, if you already have plans—"
"Stop it." He hears the harshness but lets it stand. "I don't have any plans aside from drinking beer and watching games. And copping feels off you."
She doesn't say anything. When he can bring himself to look at her, she's blushing. He is both surprised and amused. "You're all red."
Her blush intensifies, but her smile widens too. She says nothing, just puts his arm around her, takes his hand in hers and settles in. Greg looks down at her. After a moment he kisses the top of her head. "Better learn to roast a turkey this time, or Wilson will hang around the whole day."