A/N: I have zero idea where this came from, but I'm super excited because this idea is one of many and now that I've finished a particularly big piece of real-life work, I can get back to writing more smut. Huzzah! The peasants rejoice! Grace's POV.

Trust

There are certain things I miss in particular.

I wondered for many, many months if Wayne was a trusting man. In general, I mean. Not to suggest that I thought he was a suspicious person, just that he didn't seem very open. He was obedient to authority. He was civil to strangers. He was patient with witnesses. He was restrained (usually) with suspects. The only time he got even remotely cagey was when...well. When he was jealous. And he was quiet. Above all else, he was quiet.

In the end, I decided that - despite his kind, guileless ways - no, he was not a trusting man.

I don't know what it was that made him trust me.

There was a certain way he got when he was with me. I don't know how to explain it. He'd fall into my bed on his back. His eyes would stay wide, blinking innocently. His arms would unceremoniously fall open on either side of him, palms up. At work, I noticed that he usually crossed them. But in my room, he'd lay quietly, looking up at me, like he was waiting hopefully for me to join him, but not fully expecting me to. My knee would tent the mattress and he's smile in anticipation. His insecurity broke my heart and I kissed a six-foot journey from his ankle to his lips. His eyes sparked with each press of my lips. I was shocking him. Electrically. Metaphorically. In all the time we were together, my touch always surprised him.

It was like he trusted me, but he didn't trust his own luck.

I hate my own vanity. I know - I'm 100% certain - that he's never wanted anything more than he wants me. He's never been happier than when he had me. I blew his mind. I blew his body. Those big eyes that watched the world with such silent scrutiny glazed over completely when I did something a simple as rub the back of his hand. It may have been wrong of me, but I often performed acts on him that I'd never have even considered with other men, just to watch his stunned expression. I couldn't help myself. I can only assume it's what men feel at the idea of deflowering a virgin. His reaction to me was one of a kind. Never once did his eyes slant with smugness when I sucked on his testicles. Never once did he chuckle when I kissed his palms with as much reverence as I would the creator of the universe. It drove him mad when I pulled his ring finger into my mouth and laved it adoringly with my tongue, closing my teeth behind the thick silver band he wore and dragging it off him in a hard, wet suck. The ring filled my mouth with a metallic tang as I wiggled my brow at him playfully and told him that if he wanted it back, he'd have to come get it.

He'd look at my for a split second and I knew. He wanted me to keep it. He wanted to slide it over my thumb or put on a chain around my throat. He wanted that diamond that he hadn't had the heart to steal for me so that he could set it on that ring and give it to me while on his knees. He wanted it out there, marking me as his for all to see.

I saw it clearly in his eyes.

Then he'd grin, launch forward, and plumb my mouth with his tongue, scooping out his ring and crowing at its capture. He'd slide that band back onto his finger, now wet with our saliva, and smilingly confess that I made him so hot he couldn't stand it. Wanting another one of his wondrous expressions, I'd ask him if there was anything else he wanted sucked while I was at it.

Once again, he gave me the stare of a man who'd been told he'd won the lottery. Incredulous joy. No one shows it like Wayne.

Am I wrong to miss it? Am I selfish for wanting him so badly? All of the trust he foolishly gave me and the love he offered wholeheartedly? Am I a depraved addict for craving it at 3am? Or every night when I get home? Or waking up alone between blue sheets he once said made my skin look impossibly beautiful?

I never told him, but I stole from him once. He left one of his red ties at my house one night. After our breakup, I didn't put it in the box of his things that he silently came to collect the next day. That tie was special. One night, after he drugged me with more of his aching vulnerability, I begged him to tie my hands before he made love to me. I needed him to. The trust issue felt so uneven between us that I was desperate to level the field somehow. I couldn't mimic his expressions, so I gave him my hands. My control. With uncertain eyes, he knotted my hands with his tie, secured them to my headboard, and fucked me raw as I begged for more. Words can't express how much relief I felt that, as much as he was willing to give me, he was also willing to take.

Every few nights, I coil my hands tight into that tie as I lay naked in bed. Willingly bound, it's the only way I can sleep.