Thanksgiving Day
It's a dark, dreary afternoon. Gusts of wind rattle the window sashes, accompanied by spatters of rain; Baker Street is deserted, without the usual foot traffic of students, shoppers or day trippers. It's cold, mean and miserable outside, but inside the apartment it's a different story. A fire burns bright and cheerful in the fireplace, and lamps fill the living room with soft warm light. The rich fragrance of roast turkey and pie still hangs in the air, and the football game on the television adds a muted buzz of intermittent commentary. Wilson's here too, his presence as necessary to proceedings as stuffing and cranberry relish. It's a holiday set up right and proper, classic in every sense—but the best part of it is the woman at Greg's side, curled up on the couch. She has a slice of pumpkin pie, and takes a bite of it every now and then. Gardener hasn't abandoned her pattern of slow eating; she enjoys each mouthful.
"Don't know how you can have it naked," Greg says, and stuffs in an enormous bite of her apple-cherry cobbler, piled high with whipped cream.
"Not everyone empties an entire can of Reddi-Wip on one slice," Wilson says from the depths of the recliner. He sips his beer and offers a half-smile, his dark eyes bright with amusement. "Your cholesterol stats must be something to see in January."
"Never had a problem." Greg licks his fork and steals a chunk of pie from Gardener's plate. "Fast metabolism and clear arteries courtesy my real dad, whoever he is. Mom looks at food and gains five pounds. You'd know all about that."
"I don't have the slightest clue about your mother's weight problems." Wilson finishes his beer and sets the bottle on the floor beside his chair. "Dana, I'd—I'd like your recipe for the apple-cherry cobbler."
"You mean the failed pie." Greg thieves another bite. "No flaky crust, no cut-out leaves arranged artistically around the rim . . . such a disappointment."
"Which is why you ate half of it," Gardener says. She hands him her plate and picks up her glass of wine. "My apologies for ruining your day." The wry note in her voice tells him she's not really offended. A little part of him is relieved, though he'd never admit it. They are both still raw from the emotion expended the night before, but deep inside he feels a quiet relief, as if his course has been altered by the most gentle of hands—just enough to set him right without causing more pain or removal of his own choices. "Sorry it's such a disappointment."
"It was a massive sacrifice on my part, you know. If I hadn't expressed enthusiasm in some way you'd be mad at me."
"It's not a failure," Wilson says. He wedges his shoulders into the depths of the recliner and yawns. "It's delicious."
"Suckup," Greg informs him, and polishes off Gardener's pie, then dumps the plate on the coffee table. "Just for that you can do the dishes."
"Later." Gardener snuggles in next to Greg and rests her head on his shoulder. He can smell shampoo and her own scent, with a little hit of the spices Wilson used in his pie. "None of us has to be anywhere."
"Well said." Wilson tips his head back. "What's the score?"
Gardener squints at the screen. "Fourteen to seven. It looks as if the Lion team is losing."
"That figures."
"So change the channel, you have the remote." Greg slips an arm behind Gardener and brings her in close. His hand cups her breast. "Put it on some chick flick. You know you want to."
"Oh, shut up. I get enough of that crap from my patients." Wilson closes his eyes. Bit by bit his breathing deepens, and his mouth opens just a bit. Another silence, and then a faint, delicate snore issues forth.
"A new record," Greg keeps his voice soft and low. "Usually it takes ten minutes." He drops a kiss on Gardener's head. "Now's our chance."
"Hmm?" She's half-asleep herself. When she looks up at him, she blinks like a drowsy little owl. Greg feels an odd expansion in the area of his heart, but he ignores it.
"Let's go make out," he whispers. She doesn't get it at first—and then those sleepy eyes widen. She darts a glance at Wilson, who is down for the count. When she looks back at Greg, she gives him a slow smile that makes the corners of his own mouth lift in response.
In near-silence they manage to get off the couch. It makes his leg hurt like hell, but it'll be worth the pain. They move out of the living room and sneak down the hall to the bedroom, make a big deal out of how they shut the door in near silence. Gardener moves to the night stand and turns on the lamp. Without a word she removes her clothing, until she wears only the golden light. She sits on the bed and watches as he gestures at the stand. "Ties," he whispers. But he isn't the one who will be bound and helpless this time.
She submits to his direction without hesitation, even when he binds her hands together above her head and fastens them to the bedframe. When he taps her bottom lip with his finger and shows her the extra tie, she gives him a direct look for a few moments. She knows what he wants, and why; it's one of the reasons he stays with her, that quick intelligence that requires no explanations. She opens her mouth and accepts the gag, doesn't resist when he eases her head down on the pillows.
It's almost impossible for him to make love to her in the missionary position; despite the improvements provided by a good pain management regimen, exercise and the help of the TENS unit, a butchered thigh is a butchered thigh. But there are other pathways to orgasm, and if they take time to accomplish, so much the better.
So Greg lies beside her, puts his hand to her cheek, and turns her face to his. In the soft, shadowed light her gaze is steady and open. The trust he sees there almost undoes him. She has so many reasons to walk away, and yet here she is.
There is a part of him, and not a small part either, that wants revenge for the session where she gagged him. His intellect tells him it was a legitimate strategy, if a desperate one; she is within her rights to use any technique she thinks will work to help him find healing. He signed a contractual agreement to that end some time ago. And yet he still feels humiliated, betrayed. It's the reason why she wears a gag now—he needs reciprocity. He knows she knows this. While she offers him trust, she's also waiting to see how far he'll go to get some of his own back. No matter what he does, they'll have to talk about it later. But for the moment, he has her where he wants her. He'll take his lumps afterward, unless he can out-maneuver her.
He runs his hand over the rounded curve of her hip and she moves under his touch as she rises to meet him. Just because he can, he indulges in a favorite pastime and suckles her nipples, feels them swell as she moans. The perfume of her body fills him; he tastes her, lets his hand slip down to her belly, to rest just above the join of her thighs. She sighs and twists a little in her bonds, but she doesn't beg—not yet. Greg put his lips to her ear, brushes it to make her shiver. "I could leave you here," he whispers. "Just walk out the door and go back to the game." He slides his hand lower, uses his index finger and thumb to part her labia. Her thigh muscles tense, relax. "I could take you to the edge without going any further, and you'd have no say in what happens next." He circles her clitoris, feels it pulse and swell. When he looks at Gardener again, she's watching him. As their gazes meet, she waits a moment, then closes her eyes and goes still. He can sense no anger or anxiety in her; she lies passive, ready for whatever he decides. I will abide by your choice, she tells him in the only way she can. Of course that doesn't mean there won't be consequences for actions taken, but she's still left it up to him when she could fight or demand her freedom.
It strikes him then that she didn't ask for a safe word, standard procedure for any type of session like this. Along with that knowledge comes another insight: she knew all along what he'd do. She understands him better than he does himself. "You little minx," he says, torn between exasperation and laughter. She doesn't move, but under the gag he sees her smile. That peculiar feeling in his chest returns. Even though he won't put a name to it, he knows what it is now.
So Greg lifts his hands, reaches around to untie the gag. When it's gone he leans in and presses a kiss to both of the faint pink marks at the corners of Dana's mouth. Then he attends to business farther down, uses his touch and his knowledge of muscle and nerve and bone to bring her to the edge several times until she goes over into orgasm. She arches under his ministrations, shudders and gives a soundless cry before she falls back, eyes wide open now, unfocused with pleasure. He feels her vagina quiver in a series of little rhythmic contractions, a sign he's done his work well. The knowledge is pleasant, though he needs some relief of his own.
He releases her from the ties—feet first, then her hands. He massages her ankles and wrists gently, taking his time while she basks in afterglow. Then he shucks off his clothes, removes the TENS unit and perches next to her. When Gardener looks up at him, he lifts his brows and gives her a slight smile.
They make love in silence, a challenge that adds to the intensity and brings him to release. At the end they hang onto each other, sweaty, out of breath, replete.
"We need a shower," Greg says when he can speak. Gardener touches his cheek but says nothing. "Jesus. Talk already," he growls. His response elicits a smile.
"I'd be very surprised if James is still in residence. He's not exactly naïve." Her voice is husky, her accent a bit more pronounced; it's sexy as hell. Greg tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.
"If so, he'll get to be all disapproving and superior for a couple of weeks. Wilson lives for that kind of thing."
"That sounds like experience speaking." Gardener sits up a bit. "Let's find out."
They shower together, a pleasant mutual benefit, and get dressed. Then they sneak out into the hallway and tiptoe to the living room like two guilty teenagers, to find everything much as they left it. The fire's died down a bit and the game's ended but Wilson's still asleep, his head tilted to rest against the recliner's cushions. Without a word they resume their places on the couch. Greg picks up the remote, checks the online schedule, chooses another game and turns the volume up a few levels. The crowd roars as a touchdown is made, and Wilson jerks awake. He blinks and sits up, yawns, checks his watch.
"Sorry about that," he says, and looks a bit sheepish. "Ate too much and drifted off."
"About time you woke up," Greg says. "Make yourself useful and bring more pie. I'll take two slices of pumpkin. And a can of whipped cream."
They munch leftovers and watch whatever's on tv for the rest of the afternoon, with sparks of conversation now and then—undemanding and comfortable, the way it always is when Wilson's there. By the time he's ready to leave, the weather has settled down to a strong, steady wind with a sprinkle of cold rain thrown in now and then. Gardener packs up a fair amount of the food for him to take home, as well as a bottle of wine. When Wilson gets to the door he glances at Gardener, then at Greg, and offers a tiny smile.
"Bring a date next time." Greg looks down his nose at Wilson, who pauses before he nods. Then he salutes them both and heads into the dark of early evening with bags in hand.
