Page 53 of Graciously His

“You were pretty bad tonight,” I continue. “Weren’t you?”

Her answer is a high, broken whine.

“Do you know what I do with a wife who’s been bad?” She shakes her head, hair tangling in the sheets. “Want to find out?”

“Okay.”

It's all I need to hear. I draw my free hand back, even as I deepen the penetration in her ass, then I bring my palm down with a smack. Grace breaks, her body seizing up, her ass constricting as I bring my palm down again, spanking her firmly as she comes apart.

“So perfect,” I whisper, listening as her screams get lost in the mattress, her entire body tense under the weight of my love.

Her orgasm ends as abruptly as it started. I remove myself promptly this time to lay my clean hand over her ass. The skin is pink, though it probably won’t bruise.

“We’ll count that as your apology for earlier.” I stroke her back, enjoying the vulnerable dips of her spine. “You stay just like that, Grace. I’ll wipe you down, then we’ll go and get you cleaned up properly in the bathroom. How are you feeling?”

She flinches at the question and I suppress a smile. Grace loved what we’ve done, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to admit to it.

Her innocence remains.

I finish with the towel, then take her shoulders, encouraging her to sit up. She stares at the rumpled bedding, her eyes dull. Sub drop, I realise, my jaw tensing. I should have focused on holding her after she came rather than tidying her up. Now she’s recontextualising everything—and I can’t have that.

“Hey,” I whisper, sliding close. I grab the sheet and wrap it around her shoulders, concealing her from myself. The moment she’s covered, Grace lets herself lean to the side, her stiffness giving way. I put an arm around her. “Are you hurting, love?”

She shakes her head. She’s responsive, which is good, and she’s not crying, but that isn’t the clearest marker. So far, I’ve confirmed that both fear and anger make her hot, and that serious submission results in tears. I’ll have to learn more about her responses so I can prevent this type of drop.

“Do you feel bad about what we just did, Grace?”

She stiffens, and I have my answer. It’s tempting to ask what she needs, but that’s not what I want with my wife. I don’t want scripted roles with dynamics set in stone, acted out until we’re both hollow. I want our marriage to live and breathe, a contract we fulfill each time we come together, layering new clauses into our flesh with each new action, each satisfied urge.

For now, I’ve pushed my girl as far as she can go, and it’s time to take care of her. I consider everything we’ve done, going over our consummation of the night before. I recall her fascination with my shoulders, the way her body relaxed when I poised myself over her. She needs that enveloping security—minus the sexual congress.

I reposition Grace onto her back, her body hidden by the sheet, then I cover her, my own body like a blanket, with just my knees and elbows keeping my weight from crushing her. I resist the urge to force eye contact and put my face into the crook of her neck, breathing gently. She smells like sweat and sex and, beneath that, like the soap I stock in the shower.

“You have me, Grace,” I say, reminding her of who she is and who she’s with. I kiss her cheek then draw back. Her eyes are glazed. “I’m here, and I love you. I love you sick and gasping. I love you quiet and weeping. And I love you dull and aching after you’ve given me more than I asked for.”

I settle a bit more of my weight on her, listening as she hums in either discomfort or acceptance. She still won’t meet my eyes.

“When I ask if you’re hurting,” I continue, “I need you to tell me. Not because we’ve done something wrong, but because we’ve done something right and it’s time to do more. More loving, more care.” Her eyes finally find mine and I offer her the gentlest smile I’ve got. “Every time I break you, I want to put you back together. Will you let me do that now?”

“I don’t—” she swallows, “I don’t deserve it.”

I tilt my head. “I’m the judge here, and my verdict will always be the same: You deserve love.”

She inhales, eyes sparking. There she is, my sharp little heart.

“Your love,” she whispers, “is poison.”

“Poison, eh?” I chuckle, stroking her hair. “Then you’re Mithridates, little girl, sipping me slowly, then begging for more.”

“Fuck you, Nate,” she whispers.

I hear the hitch in her voice. She’s present enough to fight with me, and that’s good. I get up and hold out my hand.

“Time for the bathroom, Grace.”

She glares, pulling the sheet up beneath her chin. “I’m staying right here.”

I let my smile drop. “Remember what I told you. My wife doesn’t get to sleep through evenings and into mornings. She doesn’t pretend away her bad days or cry herself to sleep after satisfying her scary desires. No—my wife gets up and lets herself be cared for.”