Page 65 of Melancholia

His smile is surprisingly soft. “Oh darling, you can’t ask me things like that,” Amir purrs. “Otherwise, it would be too easy for me to show you all the ways to answer that, which would take longer than either of us has time for tonight.”

I still can’t get over the fact he looks like he’s barely holding onto his control. With his eyes bright and his hands gripping my thighs like he can’t even consider letting me go, I’ve never felt trapped quite like this before. But it isn’t a bad trap.

“I want you,” he says again. “That’s my prize. You however I want you. As many times as I want to take you apart.” I look down, and then up at him.

Why? I want to ask again. Why, when he looks like that and I’m this?

When he could do so much better than a broken mortician who sees the ghosts of her past and the specters of her guilt.

“Give me your safeword.”

I blink once, then again, until I’m meeting his gaze with wide eyes. “What?”

His mouth curves into a smile. “You know how a safeword works, don’t you, Nell?”

“Of course I do. I’ve just never had to have one. Should I worry you’re into, like, amputation? Because I am not into⁠—”

“Stop talking.” He leans over me again, resting his weight on his elbows so he’s caging me in against the sofa below me. “Give me your safeword. If you use it, I’ll stop.”

“Dissection.” I don’t know why I say it. I don’t know why the hell that’s what comes out of my mouth, and even Amir looks a bit bemused by it.

“Of course. It’s very you.” He kisses me again. “If you want me to stop, if you want anything to stop tonight, use it for me. Do you understand?” His hand shifts to grip my throat. “Because if you cannot tell me with certainty that you’ll do that for me, then we stop right now.”

Knowing that my consent, and the fact I can take it back at any time, is so important to him, makes my throat tighten around any of the words I might say. I take a shuddering breath, still meeting his eyes.

“I understand. I say it, you stop.”

“Good girl.” This time he pulls me until I’m sitting with my thighs sprawled over his knees, mostly in his lap as he settles back against the arm of the sofa behind him. “I like this position,” he informs me, settling me better across his lap. “I like you right here where you belong.”

That has flutters racing through me and I gently, nervously grip his shoulders, expecting another kiss as he moves.

Instead, he gets to his feet, grinning slyly while leaving me alone on the sofa. “Don’t look so put out, darling,” he chuckles. “You might even enjoy this.” As I watch from the sofa, confused and definitely horny, Amir walks to my dresser, opening my leggings drawer, my hoodie drawer, and finally, the bottom drawer.

“Ah, maybe don’t⁠—”

Amir throws me a look but doesn’t answer. Still, it’s more than enough to cut me off, and I just sit there to watch him go through that drawer as well.

“Well, well…” Embarrassment writhes in my stomach, and I clench my hands against the sleeves of my hoodie as he straightens with some cloth in one hand. “Color me surprised, little mortician. Here.” He tosses them to me, and I catch the matching set of black lace panties and a bra, both of which have little glittering moons printed on the sheer fabric.

He doesn’t need to elaborate. But I feel nervous as I head for the bathroom anyway…until Amir reaches out and grips my wrist. “I didn’t say you had to go anywhere.” His meaning is clear, even if he’s phrasing it as a suggestion. I hold his gaze, then decide, fuck it.

He let me pick the game, and I lost. I refuse to be a poor sport if I can help it, for my pride if nothing else. But holding his gaze is so, so fucking hard as I quickly strip off my hoodie and the bra I’d been wearing.

Somehow, I manage. Even as I wish for a ghost to appear between us to hide his expression from me, I let my bra fall to the floor before pulling on the lacy, sheer bra with the gold chain that starts in the middle, between my breasts, and rises to loop over my shoulders with the straps themselves. Amir watches, and whatever I’m afraid of in his expression—whatever disappointment—never comes. If anything, his golden gaze darkens to molten honey, and he doesn’t make a move while he watches me.

He’s fingered me before, I remind myself, but it’s hard to ignore the fact he’s never seen me naked. My hands tremble as I tug down my shorts and underwear, only to replace them with the matching bottoms to the bra now making my chest look way better than it does normally.

Finally, all I can do is stand there, waiting for him to say or do something.

Anything.

Amir walks forward, closing the distance between us with one hand raised. He tugs my hair free from the ponytail it had been in, arranging it around my face and shoulders so it falls around me like a waterfall of curling strands. “Beautiful,” he breathes in a tone I can only describe as reverent. “My perfect, beautiful mortician. My gorgeous doll.”

“What are you⁠—”

“Dolls don’t speak, do they?” he cuts off sweetly, reaching one hand up to cup my jaw. “But I will tell you when I need your input. “

I know the way he speaks to me should bother me. I should push away from him and walk to the door, inviting him to leave before this even begins. Something in his expression makes me think he expects me to do just that, or at least give him a less than favorable response.