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rainbowfic2015-03-29 10:09 pm
bookblather) wrote in rainbowfic2015-03-29 10:09 pm
Rose Pink 7, Clean Again 7, Spring Green 7: Surrender
Author: Kat
Title: Surrender
Story: Shine Like It Does,
Colors: Rose pink 7 (will you marry me?), clean again 7 (Long-Term Relationship), spring green 7 (can we find ourselves in the book of love?_
Supplies and Materials: Portrait, brush (discomfit), watercolors (Vulnerability), frame, pastels (setting), novelty beads (this gif)
Word Count: 5864
Rating: NC-14
Summary: Peter comes home a day early.
Warnings: sex. Plus BDSM. Safe, sane, and consensual! Also a brief description of a past traumatic event.
Notes: Triple sevens. Yeah.
Peter picked her up from work that afternoon; it was the first sign Miranda had that the day would be any different.
It was a delightful surprise, of course. He had been away on business, and she thought he would be away for a good deal longer, but there he was, leaning against his car outside her building and frowning as he checked something on his phone. A bright sudden shiver rushed down her spine.
He looked up then and smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hello, love."
"Hello," she replied, and walked toward him deliberately, each step a careful choice. "Welcome home."
"Not precisely home," Peter said. "Not yet."
The shiver ran down her spine again, and she knew he saw it, no matter how well she hid it. "Are we going home then?" she inquired, politely, as distantly as she could.
His smile turned sly, and a little dirty. "Maybe," he said, putting his phone away in his pocket. "Come here."
Miranda went to him and accepted a kiss-- on her cheek, which was unusual to say the least. She might have been worried if he hadn't put a possessive hand on the small of her back. That hand pressed forward and she leaned into him gratefully, closing her eyes for just a moment.
"Lovely girl," he murmured, and pressed another kiss against her hairline. "Have you eaten today?"
"Breakfast and lunch," she said, and gave him a saucy smile, because she knew he worried and she knew he was right to. It wasn't that she meant to work through meals, exactly-- except sometimes she did, and they both knew that.
But now he smiled at her, and rubbed the small of her back. "I don't have to take you out to dinner, then. Unless you'd like to go." His voice rose at the end of his sentence, turning it into a question.
As it happened she would like to eat something, but she wanted him first, wanted his hands and his mouth and his control. So she tucked her head against his shoulder like she was shy-- she wasn't-- and said, "No, thank you. I'd rather just go home."
The hand on the small of her back twitched, and she knew he wanted to start it here, put his hand around her neck and pull her in. He would, too, if they didn't have their agreement-- nothing at work or where her underlings could see-- and she knew if he did, she wouldn't mind. Not in the moment.
Still, Peter's breathing went deeper, and Miranda smiled into his shoulder.
"Then why don't you get in the car," he said, and she obeyed.
--
It didn't start right away. They entered the house like any other couple; he helped her off with her shoes and she helped him with his jacket. He sorted through the mail, she turned on the air conditioning. Little things, domestic things. They were all the better for anticipation, knowing what was coming.
"Takeout for dinner?" Peter called from the kitchen, as she was taking off her earrings in the bedroom.
"Yes, please," she called back, and set her earrings on the vanity before padding out, down the hall and into the kitchen. "Chinese?"
He was flipping through menus, and shrugged. "Chinese is fine." Then he grinned at her, a flash of an impish smile. "Not Mexican?"
Miranda gave a deliberate full-body shudder. "No, thank you." When you'd grown up on proper Mexican food cooked by actual Mexicans (thank you, Abuelita), fast food wasn't even worth the time it took to think of it.
"I thought not," he said, and offered the menu. "What would you like?"
She didn't take it; she stepped away and put her hands behind her back, cast her eyes down and to the side. "I thought maybe..." And she couldn't finish the sentence. She knew there wasn't a lot that he wouldn't do for her-- for example, he refused to deliberately hurt her, not that she wanted him to, but she thought that might be all-- but he might not be in the mood to...
His eyebrows rose, and then he smiled. A shiver went down her back at the sight, and made her press her thighs together. "Yes. All right. I'll order. You go into the bedroom and wait for me."
--
Unfortunately, 'go into the bedroom and wait for me' did not involve undressing.
She sat on the side of the bed with her hands clenched in her lap, waiting, trying to control her breathing. It felt so long since they'd been together, though it was a week and a half at best, and it was longer since they'd done this, at least a month. Which was to say-- she always gave him some measure of control over her, just as he did for her, but this total surrender, oh, it had been too long.
She closed her eyes and bit her lip, and when she opened them again he was standing in front of her, taking off his tie.
He smiled at her, her favorite smile, the one full of warmth and comfort, the one that made his eyes crinkle up at the corners. "You look impatient," he said dropping his tie on the dresser.
"If I say that I am," she said, watching him take off his cufflinks, "will I get into trouble?" It was a saucy question, and it made him laugh.
"Maybe," he said, and winked at her. "Strip, please."
Her eyes closed, and she let out a breath. Finally.
She took it slowly, made a game of it with herself. The jacket came off, and she draped it over a chair so it would keep its shape, and exhaled. Her skirt unzipped, and she let it fall to the ground, let it hang as it would when she put it on the chair's seat. She unbuttoned her shirt slowly, almost meditatively, folded it and placed it on the seat of the chair, sinking deeper. Her stockings rolled down-- she'd worn the thigh-highs, of all the lovely coincidences-- and she balled them up carefully so they wouldn't get separated, then unclasped her bra and left it arranged neatly atop her shirt, because she didn't like things messy. She placed her hands on the edge of her underwear, and looked up at him, unsure.
He nodded at her. "Go ahead, love. All of it."
There was a bulge in his pants. He'd been watching her. He'd been enjoying it. The thought made her shiver with delight.
Off with the underwear then, silk sliding down her thighs, and she returned to the bed, sat as before with her hands clasped in her lap. This time, though, there was no need to force herself relaxed, no need to control her breathing. What happened tonight would happen when he said it would: there was nothing left for her to decide. The thought calmed her, made the tension slip out of her shoulders.
"Good," he said, softly, and she knew he'd seen that too. "Tell me your safeword."
"Charlotte," she said, obediently. Her sister's name was her usual safeword-- nothing made her feel more comfortable than Charlotte's quiet company, at least before she met him-- but she didn't expect to need it tonight.
He nodded. "Get up off the bed for me."
She stood, and he stepped forward--and oh, he was still clothed, he'd only taken off his tie and cufflinks and undone a button or two; he might not undress tonight and she wanted to squirm at the thought-- but he cupped the back of her skull in his hand, threaded his fingers through her hair, and pulled her gently forward, tucking her head against his shoulder. She closed her eyes and they stood like that for a moment, just breathing.
Then he stepped away. "Down," he said, and touched the back of her neck.
It never took more than that, not even if she was feeling stubborn, which she decidedly wasn't. She slid onto the bed and down to her knees, then dropped forward onto her elbows, her forearms pressing into the bed. She spread her fingers out on the sheets, pressed her palms flat.
"Good girl," he breathed, and the touch at the back of her neck, repeated, turned into a stroke, all the way down her spine. She arched into it like a cat, and squeaked when he slapped her, just once, sharp on one buttock.
"Did I say you could move?"
No, and she was also not told that she could speak. She shook her head, closed her eyes and dropped her head to the bed, between her arms, pressing her forehead against the sheets.
There was a long, excruciating pause, and then he said, "Good girl," again, in that soft caressing voice that made her shiver all over with pleasure.
The bed dipped as he knelt beside her and rested one hand on her back. He hummed thoughtfully, touched her cheek with the other hand, and brushed his thumb along the curve of her cheekbone. "You're very lovely," he said, and his voice was so gentle, so loving that it was almost a caress in itself. "From here--" he swept a hand down the curve of her back, over her buttocks and down her legs as far as he could reach, "--to here." He traced her lower lip with his thumb, then pressed it in. She closed her mouth around it and sucked, once, and he smiled. "Good girl."
The praise washed over her like sunlight. She let her eyes fall closed.
He stroked her back again, slow and even. "Now what shall we do today? Are you tired, lovely girl? You may speak to answer me."
"No, sir," she said, into the bedspread, and shivered when he stroked her thigh. "I'm not tired at all."
"Good," he said, his voice warming her through. "Still, work tomorrow. Mustn't keep you up too late." His hands turned thoughtful again, their movements slow, but steady. "Nothing fancy. And..." His hand dipped between her legs, suddenly, probed between her labia and swiped once over her clit, sharp. She bit her lip to keep still.
"I want to fuck you tonight," he said, as if he'd never stopped talking. "Do you think you've earned it?"
It was daring, very daring, but... "If you want it," she said, "does it matter whether I've earned it? Sir."
He paused, hands going still on her body, and it was all she could do not to strain into his touch. "And just what do you mean by that?"
He'd tried to sound stern but there was delight in his voice, and amusement. She'd pleased him. "I mean," she said, "I'm yours. My body is yours, sir, I belong to you. If you want to fuck me, what does it matter what I think?"
He laughed outright at that. "You just want to be fucked."
"Yes," she whispered. "Oh, yes, sir, please..."
The bed dipped beneath her knees as he moved behind her, and then he stretched out above her, the cloth of his shirt rough against her naked back, the buttons catching on her skin. She could feel the cloth of his pants against her legs, the buckle of his belt on her ass. "You're right, though," he breathed, into her ear. "Clever girl. You do belong to me." He cupped her breast, rocked his hips once against hers. "And you have been good. You've been taking care of yourself, I know. You've been kind to yourself, too, haven't you?"
She nodded, wordlessly, her breath and voice stolen by all the praise.
"Good girl," he said again, and nipped a kiss into her throat. "Such a good girl. Stay just like this for me."
He lifted away from her and she wanted to follow, a flower turning toward the sun, but she held position and listened to the rustle of his clothes, the clink of a belt. He came back and cupped her hips, his hands big and warm on her skin.
"Look at you," he said, softly. "All spread out for me. You're so beautiful, and just for me."
Could she respond? She wasn't sure, but he hadn't asked a question; better not. But she couldn't keep the whimper from escaping. To her surprise, he didn't punish her for it, just ran his hand around her hip and rested it over her abdomen, so close, so close to where she wanted it.
He was in an indulgent mood today, obviously, because that was the second small disobedience he let her get away with. She didn't really want to try another, made herself hold still and silent, until he made a small noise of approval and let his other hand rest on the small of her back, holding her, watching her. She couldn't see him, but she could feel his eyes on her.
"You're so beautiful," he said, quietly, almost to himself. His hand slipped forward and he rubbed a knuckle against her clit, gentle. "All the time, I mean, but especially like this, all needy and relaxed."
She would whine at the touch, at the words, but better not to push her luck. She closed her eyes and sank her teeth into her lower lip to keep from it.
He slipped a finger into her, the heel of his palm pressing against her clit. "Sometimes," he said, and he was definitely talking to himself, "I wish I could keep you like this always. Take all of your burdens away." His free hand slipped up her spine and came to rest at the nape of her neck, his fingers pressing, massaging all along the way. Shocks of pleasure chased each other up and down her spine, from the loosening muscles of her back and neck, from his hand against and in her. "You are very precious to me," he continued, massaging her inside and out. "I hope you know that. Do you know that?"
A direct question. "Yes," she said, quietly. "Yes, sir."
"Good." His mouth brushed the small of her back, a sweet soft kiss. "Lovely girl. Don't say anything, now. Let me take care of you."
She didn't say it, she'd been told not to speak, but she hoped her body said it, yes sir, how comfortable she was. How relaxed she was, even with two fingers inside her and such pressure on her clit, even in the awkward position she was in when he pushed her shoulders down until her head rested against the bed, her arms crumpled under her and her shoulders slumping down toward the covers.
"Lovely girl," he said again, and suddenly his hands were gone and he was leaning over her again, fabric rubbing rough against her legs. He braced himself on her shoulders; she could feel her own slick on his fingers, against her skin, and it was strangely arousing. If she could see his face... but she couldn't, and it didn't much matter either way, because his mouth was against her ear, his breath hot on her cheek. "Close your eyes. Just feel."
She did.
She'd known, of course, how deprivation of one sense led to the heightening of the others, but there was knowing it and knowing it, and she could feel everything right now. He was still dressed, his shirt smooth on her back and stubbled with cold buttons, his pants rougher, maybe reddening her skin. She hoped so; she liked it when he left marks. And... and she could feel his cock slotting between her legs, the edges of his fly pressed against her thighs. And. And. She wanted him inside her so badly she had to squeeze to keep her eyes closed, bite her tongue to keep from speaking.
He was touching her, hands skating across her skin; refamiliarizing himself with her body, she thought, though it had been less than two weeks. Not that she minded. His hands always felt so good on her, so broad and careful. He cupped her breast in one hand and her nipple fit right into his palm; he spread the other around her neck and it was all she could do to hold still, to not push herself into his grasp. There was something intoxicating about his hand on her neck, about knowing that he could really hurt her, and knowing that he never, ever would. One time he had her on her back, held her down with only his hand around her neck, and she came harder than she ever had before.
But not today. Today he let her breast go, reached back between them, and guided his cock into her, finally, and her legs were trembling, tears forming beneath her eyelids. Oh, finally.
He groaned into her ear, his body suddenly a little heavier on hers. "Oh, yes," he said. "Oh, yes."
He was so deep, God, it felt like coming home, his hand around her throat and his other hand gripping her hip, his cock filling her up, his forehead resting against the back of her neck. And if he was fully dressed and she was stark naked, well, that felt like coming home too. It felt like... like she was his, like she belonged to him, like she could just close her eyes and give up and let herself be used and everything would somehow impossibly be all right...
"Beautiful girl," he said, into her ear, and began to move.
"Don't come," he added, some time later, when he'd been rocking his hips against hers and his hand against her belly for what felt like hours but was probably less than ten minutes. "Not yet."
She had to bite her lip bloody to keep from whimpering. Don't come, when she was close already, and she knew he knew it...? But in some ways he was being kind. There had been times when he'd tortured her, danced her on the edge of orgasm with his hands and mouth and fingers and cock and still said don't come, and at least now he wasn't really doing anything to her, just chasing his own pleasure in her body. He hadn't worn a condom and for a moment she wondered if he'd leave her like this once he'd finished, sprawled naked on the bed with his come dripping out of her.
But he'd stopped, and she wanted nothing less than that even if it meant she couldn't come, and his hand around her neck tightened just a little. "What did I tell you? Answer me."
"Don't come," she whispered, and nearly sobbed aloud with relief when he started moving again.
"Good girl," he breathed, and peppered kisses along the back of her shoulders and neck. "Don't worry. I'll let you come before long. Just not quite yet."
"Thank you, sir," she gasped.
He laughed at that, and kissed the back of her neck again. "I told you not to talk, didn't I? That's another few minutes before you can come. You are welcome, though."
She had no idea how he could be so coherent, still. He was moving faster, in her, on her, and his breathing grew harsh in her ear, but apart from that he seemed entirely unaffected.
"This is what I'm going to do," he told her, a minute or so later. "I'm going to come inside you, like I wanted. Then, if you've been good, I'll let you come."
She couldn't help the whine that escaped, and winced, waiting for the punishment. He said nothing, though, only cupped his hand around her neck again and lifted, forcing her head back. She strained upwards, arching her back, bending back as far as she could go, and was rewarded when he dropped a kiss on her forehead.
"Beautiful," he said, and thrust into her again. "You can make noise, I don't mind that. Just don't talk."
Oh, thank God. She let her head fall forward again, and cried out now, every time he thrust, every time he rocked against her and kissed the back of her neck. "Beautiful," he whispered, into her ear, "beautiful, beautiful, oh--"
She felt him come; the hot rush inside her and the way he twitched, the way he pressed his face into the back of her shoulder, wrapped his arms tight around her, and just breathed for a moment. He always did that, always tucked himself as close to her as he could get, like he couldn't get enough of her. And even now, even so close and so ready to beg, she loved it, loved him, so much she could hardly fit in her skin.
He kissed the nape of her neck again, and left his mouth there for a long moment before he pulled away, pulled out of her and tapped her hip, gently. "On your back for me, love."
She rolled over, let her knees butterfly out around him, and took the kiss he gave her, warm and slow and loving. It... he loved her, so much, as much as she loved him and that still threw her every time she thought of it, still made her so frightened and grateful and blessed.
He kissed her again, quicker this time, then moved away. "So," he said, standing at her vanity, closing his flies. "Do you think you were good? Answer me."
"Yes, sir," she said, watching him, wishing he was back on the bed with her.
He took off his belt and coiled the leather in a circle on her vanity, around her earrings, then turned back to her, his expression unreadable. "Good enough for me to let you come?"
Was there even a right answer to that? "I..."
"Never mind," he said, and came back to the bed. "I think you've been good enough, and as you so eloquently said earlier, that's all that matters."
She closed her eyes in relief, and raised her hips just a little, a fraction of an inch off the quilt, pleading.
He laughed. "Single-minded, aren't you? Would you beg if I let you?"
She nodded, fervently, and lifted her hips again. He put a hand on her abdomen, precisely in the middle, and pressed her down to the quilt again, gentle but inexorable.
"Stay down," he told her, and went to move his hand, but then he paused, an odd look on his face, and rubbed his thumb slowly against her skin.
What was he doing? She couldn't even crane her neck up to look, could only look at his face and the mingled love and authority and fear and sorrow-- oh.
Oh, of course.
He traced the big scar with his forefinger, the one that ran from her left hip nearly to the bottom of her ribcage. That had been the first wound; she'd crumpled around the knife, and the man hadn't let go, dragging it upwards as she fell. The others were much smaller, delivered when she was already on the ground, two three four five six in quick succession, scattered across her abdomen. There was mostly no telling which was which, but the last one sat squarely between her hips, more rounded than the others. She knew it was the last one. The man had twisted the knife there.
She wanted badly to speak, or take him in her arms, or at least put her hand on his, reassuring; she was still here, still alive, still his. But he'd said no, no speaking, no moving, not even to serve him, so she lay quiescent under his hands, and waited.
It was a timeless while before he moved again, spreading his hand out to lie flat on her abdomen, and bending down to kiss her, slow and easy. "Darling heart," he breathed, against her mouth. "That will never happen again. I won't let it."
Of course it wouldn't. How could anything hurt her, when he took care of her, kept her so perfectly safe?
Still, he wasn't happy, and so she wasn't. In an attempt to restore the mood, she let her legs fall apart just a little more, so slightly it could be a natural consequence of gravity. From the look he shot her, he knew it wasn't an accident, but he let her get away with it, even cupped her vulva, rocking the heel of his hand against her clit again.
"You really want to come, hmm."
That likely didn't require an answer, but she tossed her head on the pillow anyway, and cried out sharply when he slid one finger and then another inside her. The hand on her abdomen held her down now, as she tried to push into his touch. He only had to lean forward a little and she was borne relentlessly down toward the mattress.
"Someday," he said, idly, "I want to cuff you, just like this, and put you on a Sybian, and then just... watch. See how long you can take it before you have to push yourself off. How long do you think you could take it?"
The thought made her shiver, made her try to arch her back and lift her hips into his hand, even though she knew it wouldn't work. He'd done things like that before; once he held a vibrator against her clit and fucked her while she writhed, and she knew that he liked to make her come and come and come again before he'd let her rest. But that... that would be different, nothing but her own will to hold her in place, her will and the desire to please him. And the Sybian was... she'd been on one before. It never let her rest. It made her come, and that time she only had to stay on for the one orgasm. The way he played, the way he wrung her body out, it might wreck her completely.
She couldn't wait.
He cupped his hand around her chin, tilted it up and forced her to meet his eyes. "I asked you a question. Answer it."
His tone was mild enough, but she shivered again, and choked out the words. "Yes, sir. I'm s-sorry, sir. I don't know how long."
"Not even a guess?" His hand left her chin, trailed down her neck, over her shoulder and down to her breasts to toy idly with a nipple. "How many orgasms?"
She scrambled for thought, tried to put the words together until he pinched her nipple, just sharp enough to be a reminder. "I don't know, sir," she gasped, just managing to turn her cry into words. "I don't... three?"
"Three," he repeated, a hint of wonder in his tone. "Yes, I think you could take it that long. I think you might be able to take up to five, but I'll only hold you to three."
"Yes, sir," and her voice wobbled a bit. So close, she was so close, if he would only...
"And someday," he went on, his fingers moving as slowly as his voice no matter how she squirmed, "I'm going to have you over your desk. When Julian's gone to lunch, and you don't have any appointments. I'll lock the door and take off your panties and have you right there, where anyone could see."
She sobbed at that, at the image; her hands clutching at the smooth wood of her desk, papers flying everywhere, his cock inside her and all the while she'd have to be so quiet, so good, because if someone found out...
"You're close, aren't you?" he asked, and she managed a nod, squirming under his hand. "Good. I like it when you're close. I like your face, and how you can barely hold yourself together. I like it when you let go for me." And suddenly he was there, his breath warm against her ear, his hand still working slowly in and out. "Let go for me. Now."
She did.
When she came down to earth again, he was lying next to her, hand resting on her belly. "Welcome back," he said, and kissed her. "How are you feeling?"
She shrugged, wordless for the moment, and threaded her fingers through his.
"All right then." He sat up. "Glass of water?"
She nodded, but when he moved to take his hand away, she tightened her grasp and pulled their joined hands up to rest just beneath her chin. Bless him, he didn't laugh at her, only reached up and stroked her hair. "When you're ready, love," he told her.
She liked the feeling of his skin against hers, and the bumps of his knuckles pressing against her jaw. And he was so patient with her, so... but there was only so long she could hold him, if she wanted her water. She slid their hands to the side, turned her head and kissed his knuckles, and then let go.
"All right," he said again, and removed his hand from hers, very slowly. "I'll be right back. You just stay there and relax."
She closed her eyes, still feeling obedient, and let herself drift into a sort of half-sleep as the water ran in the bathroom. A sort of exhausted relaxation took over, and by the time Peter came back into the room, she didn't even want to move enough to drink.
He knew her, knew the signs; he set the glass on the table and sat next to her, his hand finding its way to her hair again. "Come here," he said, and she found the will to roll over, let him rearrange her body until she lay with her head on one of his thighs. He combed one hand through her hair, slow and gentle. She wanted to purr from the sheer pleasure of it.
"All right, love?"
Miranda opened her eyes at his voice, and smiled sleepily up at him. "Mm," she said. "Feel wonderful."
He bent down and kissed her forehead. "Good. You look much more relaxed."
She hummed, melting into his touch. She liked this part as much as the play itself, when he stroked her hair and murmured praise. She liked the comfort and the care, and how he made her feel, so completely, utterly safe.
"You were so good for me," he was saying now, scratching his nails lightly against her scalp. She pushed up into his hand like an affectionate cat. "So good, and so lovely. You did so well."
"Hmm." She was tired now, her eyelids drooping under his ministrations. But they hadn't eaten... and that was odd, now that she thought of it. Shouldn't the food have come by now?
She asked him, and he laughed again, dropping a kiss on her mouth. "I should have known you'd notice that. I asked them to hold the order back for an hour, which means they should be delivering it--" He checked his watch, and she was struck by the realization that he hadn't taken it off-- "any minute."
"Mm." Miranda turned her face into the curve of his hip and closed her eyes again. "Can I stay here? When they come?"
"Of course." He ran his hand through her hair again. "You stay just like this, and I'll bring you the food."
She curled an arm around his waist, and turned her face into his stomach, and breathed.
--
Later that night, after he'd fed her and cuddled her, after she'd napped and worked a little, after they went to bed and turned out the light, he curled up behind her and put his arms around her waist. She liked the gentle weight on her side, and the warm solid presence of him at her back.
It really had been a wonderful day, Miranda thought, drowsing. A shorter workday than usual, and cooperative clients, and she'd even managed an entire hour for lunch with her brother. Then Peter, home so unexpectedly, and the chance to let go, to just be, and a lovely slow evening. It couldn't be like this all the time, she knew that, but it had only been nineteen months ago that she'd thought she would never have this ever again, and that wound still ached sometimes.
Peter shifted behind her, and she snuggled back against him, resting a hand over his. She'd been stupid to imagine she could ever have let him go. It might have been better for him if they'd never met, and maybe if he'd listened to her when she left him-- but she was selfish, and she would never give him up. Not now that she had him, not now that he'd stayed with her.
"You're thinking very loudly," Peter said, dryly.
She laughed, and closed her eyes against the dark bedroom, sleep coming in like the tide. "I'll try to stop."
"Mm," he said, and then, "Marry me."
At first she wasn't sure that she'd heard him correctly, but then, what else could he have said? But to say that now, when she had just been thinking... could he actually read her mind? That was a frightening thought.
Miranda wriggled around in his arms to face him. "What?"
"Marry me," he said again, and smiled at her. "I love you, and I want you to marry me."
She blinked at him, long and slow. "You... want me to marry you."
"Yes." No sign of exasperation in his voice, no frustration, only patience and love. "I guess it might be moving fast, but I missed you so much, while I was away." He was quiet for a moment, then added, "I want to keep you."
Miranda had to close her eyes at the shiver that went through her at the thought of being kept. No one had ever... she'd kept people, she'd protected people, but no one ever... "I want to be kept," she whispered, half to herself.
"Then marry me," Peter said. He leaned forward just a little, enough to rub the tip of his nose against hers. "We can have a long engagement or get married tomorrow, whatever you want. But I want to marry you."
She kept quiet for a moment, just feeling-- his breathing, steady in and out, his skin against hers, his fingers scratching lightly at the nape of her neck. He loved her. He loved her. It was enough.
She must have paused too long, because he tugged the blanket up over her shoulder, then added, "You can take as much time to think as you want. I can wait."
Miranda shook her head automatically, hating the uncertainty she heard in his voice. "No. No, I... yes."
There was a long pause, and then Peter said, carefully, "To which?"
"What?" Miranda realized how it must have sounded then, to him. God. She must be much closer to sleep than she thought, to be so scattered. "Oh. Yes, I'll marry you."
"Oh," he said, and then, "Good. Yes. All right. We'll talk about it in the morning?"
"Please," she said, and let her eyes drift close again, resting her forehead against his clavicle. "I'm tired."
He laughed, deep in his chest, and she felt it against her hand. "All right. Sleep well, love."
She would.
Title: Surrender
Story: Shine Like It Does,
Colors: Rose pink 7 (will you marry me?), clean again 7 (Long-Term Relationship), spring green 7 (can we find ourselves in the book of love?_
Supplies and Materials: Portrait, brush (discomfit), watercolors (Vulnerability), frame, pastels (setting), novelty beads (this gif)
Word Count: 5864
Rating: NC-14
Summary: Peter comes home a day early.
Warnings: sex. Plus BDSM. Safe, sane, and consensual! Also a brief description of a past traumatic event.
Notes: Triple sevens. Yeah.
Peter picked her up from work that afternoon; it was the first sign Miranda had that the day would be any different.
It was a delightful surprise, of course. He had been away on business, and she thought he would be away for a good deal longer, but there he was, leaning against his car outside her building and frowning as he checked something on his phone. A bright sudden shiver rushed down her spine.
He looked up then and smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hello, love."
"Hello," she replied, and walked toward him deliberately, each step a careful choice. "Welcome home."
"Not precisely home," Peter said. "Not yet."
The shiver ran down her spine again, and she knew he saw it, no matter how well she hid it. "Are we going home then?" she inquired, politely, as distantly as she could.
His smile turned sly, and a little dirty. "Maybe," he said, putting his phone away in his pocket. "Come here."
Miranda went to him and accepted a kiss-- on her cheek, which was unusual to say the least. She might have been worried if he hadn't put a possessive hand on the small of her back. That hand pressed forward and she leaned into him gratefully, closing her eyes for just a moment.
"Lovely girl," he murmured, and pressed another kiss against her hairline. "Have you eaten today?"
"Breakfast and lunch," she said, and gave him a saucy smile, because she knew he worried and she knew he was right to. It wasn't that she meant to work through meals, exactly-- except sometimes she did, and they both knew that.
But now he smiled at her, and rubbed the small of her back. "I don't have to take you out to dinner, then. Unless you'd like to go." His voice rose at the end of his sentence, turning it into a question.
As it happened she would like to eat something, but she wanted him first, wanted his hands and his mouth and his control. So she tucked her head against his shoulder like she was shy-- she wasn't-- and said, "No, thank you. I'd rather just go home."
The hand on the small of her back twitched, and she knew he wanted to start it here, put his hand around her neck and pull her in. He would, too, if they didn't have their agreement-- nothing at work or where her underlings could see-- and she knew if he did, she wouldn't mind. Not in the moment.
Still, Peter's breathing went deeper, and Miranda smiled into his shoulder.
"Then why don't you get in the car," he said, and she obeyed.
--
It didn't start right away. They entered the house like any other couple; he helped her off with her shoes and she helped him with his jacket. He sorted through the mail, she turned on the air conditioning. Little things, domestic things. They were all the better for anticipation, knowing what was coming.
"Takeout for dinner?" Peter called from the kitchen, as she was taking off her earrings in the bedroom.
"Yes, please," she called back, and set her earrings on the vanity before padding out, down the hall and into the kitchen. "Chinese?"
He was flipping through menus, and shrugged. "Chinese is fine." Then he grinned at her, a flash of an impish smile. "Not Mexican?"
Miranda gave a deliberate full-body shudder. "No, thank you." When you'd grown up on proper Mexican food cooked by actual Mexicans (thank you, Abuelita), fast food wasn't even worth the time it took to think of it.
"I thought not," he said, and offered the menu. "What would you like?"
She didn't take it; she stepped away and put her hands behind her back, cast her eyes down and to the side. "I thought maybe..." And she couldn't finish the sentence. She knew there wasn't a lot that he wouldn't do for her-- for example, he refused to deliberately hurt her, not that she wanted him to, but she thought that might be all-- but he might not be in the mood to...
His eyebrows rose, and then he smiled. A shiver went down her back at the sight, and made her press her thighs together. "Yes. All right. I'll order. You go into the bedroom and wait for me."
--
Unfortunately, 'go into the bedroom and wait for me' did not involve undressing.
She sat on the side of the bed with her hands clenched in her lap, waiting, trying to control her breathing. It felt so long since they'd been together, though it was a week and a half at best, and it was longer since they'd done this, at least a month. Which was to say-- she always gave him some measure of control over her, just as he did for her, but this total surrender, oh, it had been too long.
She closed her eyes and bit her lip, and when she opened them again he was standing in front of her, taking off his tie.
He smiled at her, her favorite smile, the one full of warmth and comfort, the one that made his eyes crinkle up at the corners. "You look impatient," he said dropping his tie on the dresser.
"If I say that I am," she said, watching him take off his cufflinks, "will I get into trouble?" It was a saucy question, and it made him laugh.
"Maybe," he said, and winked at her. "Strip, please."
Her eyes closed, and she let out a breath. Finally.
She took it slowly, made a game of it with herself. The jacket came off, and she draped it over a chair so it would keep its shape, and exhaled. Her skirt unzipped, and she let it fall to the ground, let it hang as it would when she put it on the chair's seat. She unbuttoned her shirt slowly, almost meditatively, folded it and placed it on the seat of the chair, sinking deeper. Her stockings rolled down-- she'd worn the thigh-highs, of all the lovely coincidences-- and she balled them up carefully so they wouldn't get separated, then unclasped her bra and left it arranged neatly atop her shirt, because she didn't like things messy. She placed her hands on the edge of her underwear, and looked up at him, unsure.
He nodded at her. "Go ahead, love. All of it."
There was a bulge in his pants. He'd been watching her. He'd been enjoying it. The thought made her shiver with delight.
Off with the underwear then, silk sliding down her thighs, and she returned to the bed, sat as before with her hands clasped in her lap. This time, though, there was no need to force herself relaxed, no need to control her breathing. What happened tonight would happen when he said it would: there was nothing left for her to decide. The thought calmed her, made the tension slip out of her shoulders.
"Good," he said, softly, and she knew he'd seen that too. "Tell me your safeword."
"Charlotte," she said, obediently. Her sister's name was her usual safeword-- nothing made her feel more comfortable than Charlotte's quiet company, at least before she met him-- but she didn't expect to need it tonight.
He nodded. "Get up off the bed for me."
She stood, and he stepped forward--and oh, he was still clothed, he'd only taken off his tie and cufflinks and undone a button or two; he might not undress tonight and she wanted to squirm at the thought-- but he cupped the back of her skull in his hand, threaded his fingers through her hair, and pulled her gently forward, tucking her head against his shoulder. She closed her eyes and they stood like that for a moment, just breathing.
Then he stepped away. "Down," he said, and touched the back of her neck.
It never took more than that, not even if she was feeling stubborn, which she decidedly wasn't. She slid onto the bed and down to her knees, then dropped forward onto her elbows, her forearms pressing into the bed. She spread her fingers out on the sheets, pressed her palms flat.
"Good girl," he breathed, and the touch at the back of her neck, repeated, turned into a stroke, all the way down her spine. She arched into it like a cat, and squeaked when he slapped her, just once, sharp on one buttock.
"Did I say you could move?"
No, and she was also not told that she could speak. She shook her head, closed her eyes and dropped her head to the bed, between her arms, pressing her forehead against the sheets.
There was a long, excruciating pause, and then he said, "Good girl," again, in that soft caressing voice that made her shiver all over with pleasure.
The bed dipped as he knelt beside her and rested one hand on her back. He hummed thoughtfully, touched her cheek with the other hand, and brushed his thumb along the curve of her cheekbone. "You're very lovely," he said, and his voice was so gentle, so loving that it was almost a caress in itself. "From here--" he swept a hand down the curve of her back, over her buttocks and down her legs as far as he could reach, "--to here." He traced her lower lip with his thumb, then pressed it in. She closed her mouth around it and sucked, once, and he smiled. "Good girl."
The praise washed over her like sunlight. She let her eyes fall closed.
He stroked her back again, slow and even. "Now what shall we do today? Are you tired, lovely girl? You may speak to answer me."
"No, sir," she said, into the bedspread, and shivered when he stroked her thigh. "I'm not tired at all."
"Good," he said, his voice warming her through. "Still, work tomorrow. Mustn't keep you up too late." His hands turned thoughtful again, their movements slow, but steady. "Nothing fancy. And..." His hand dipped between her legs, suddenly, probed between her labia and swiped once over her clit, sharp. She bit her lip to keep still.
"I want to fuck you tonight," he said, as if he'd never stopped talking. "Do you think you've earned it?"
It was daring, very daring, but... "If you want it," she said, "does it matter whether I've earned it? Sir."
He paused, hands going still on her body, and it was all she could do not to strain into his touch. "And just what do you mean by that?"
He'd tried to sound stern but there was delight in his voice, and amusement. She'd pleased him. "I mean," she said, "I'm yours. My body is yours, sir, I belong to you. If you want to fuck me, what does it matter what I think?"
He laughed outright at that. "You just want to be fucked."
"Yes," she whispered. "Oh, yes, sir, please..."
The bed dipped beneath her knees as he moved behind her, and then he stretched out above her, the cloth of his shirt rough against her naked back, the buttons catching on her skin. She could feel the cloth of his pants against her legs, the buckle of his belt on her ass. "You're right, though," he breathed, into her ear. "Clever girl. You do belong to me." He cupped her breast, rocked his hips once against hers. "And you have been good. You've been taking care of yourself, I know. You've been kind to yourself, too, haven't you?"
She nodded, wordlessly, her breath and voice stolen by all the praise.
"Good girl," he said again, and nipped a kiss into her throat. "Such a good girl. Stay just like this for me."
He lifted away from her and she wanted to follow, a flower turning toward the sun, but she held position and listened to the rustle of his clothes, the clink of a belt. He came back and cupped her hips, his hands big and warm on her skin.
"Look at you," he said, softly. "All spread out for me. You're so beautiful, and just for me."
Could she respond? She wasn't sure, but he hadn't asked a question; better not. But she couldn't keep the whimper from escaping. To her surprise, he didn't punish her for it, just ran his hand around her hip and rested it over her abdomen, so close, so close to where she wanted it.
He was in an indulgent mood today, obviously, because that was the second small disobedience he let her get away with. She didn't really want to try another, made herself hold still and silent, until he made a small noise of approval and let his other hand rest on the small of her back, holding her, watching her. She couldn't see him, but she could feel his eyes on her.
"You're so beautiful," he said, quietly, almost to himself. His hand slipped forward and he rubbed a knuckle against her clit, gentle. "All the time, I mean, but especially like this, all needy and relaxed."
She would whine at the touch, at the words, but better not to push her luck. She closed her eyes and sank her teeth into her lower lip to keep from it.
He slipped a finger into her, the heel of his palm pressing against her clit. "Sometimes," he said, and he was definitely talking to himself, "I wish I could keep you like this always. Take all of your burdens away." His free hand slipped up her spine and came to rest at the nape of her neck, his fingers pressing, massaging all along the way. Shocks of pleasure chased each other up and down her spine, from the loosening muscles of her back and neck, from his hand against and in her. "You are very precious to me," he continued, massaging her inside and out. "I hope you know that. Do you know that?"
A direct question. "Yes," she said, quietly. "Yes, sir."
"Good." His mouth brushed the small of her back, a sweet soft kiss. "Lovely girl. Don't say anything, now. Let me take care of you."
She didn't say it, she'd been told not to speak, but she hoped her body said it, yes sir, how comfortable she was. How relaxed she was, even with two fingers inside her and such pressure on her clit, even in the awkward position she was in when he pushed her shoulders down until her head rested against the bed, her arms crumpled under her and her shoulders slumping down toward the covers.
"Lovely girl," he said again, and suddenly his hands were gone and he was leaning over her again, fabric rubbing rough against her legs. He braced himself on her shoulders; she could feel her own slick on his fingers, against her skin, and it was strangely arousing. If she could see his face... but she couldn't, and it didn't much matter either way, because his mouth was against her ear, his breath hot on her cheek. "Close your eyes. Just feel."
She did.
She'd known, of course, how deprivation of one sense led to the heightening of the others, but there was knowing it and knowing it, and she could feel everything right now. He was still dressed, his shirt smooth on her back and stubbled with cold buttons, his pants rougher, maybe reddening her skin. She hoped so; she liked it when he left marks. And... and she could feel his cock slotting between her legs, the edges of his fly pressed against her thighs. And. And. She wanted him inside her so badly she had to squeeze to keep her eyes closed, bite her tongue to keep from speaking.
He was touching her, hands skating across her skin; refamiliarizing himself with her body, she thought, though it had been less than two weeks. Not that she minded. His hands always felt so good on her, so broad and careful. He cupped her breast in one hand and her nipple fit right into his palm; he spread the other around her neck and it was all she could do to hold still, to not push herself into his grasp. There was something intoxicating about his hand on her neck, about knowing that he could really hurt her, and knowing that he never, ever would. One time he had her on her back, held her down with only his hand around her neck, and she came harder than she ever had before.
But not today. Today he let her breast go, reached back between them, and guided his cock into her, finally, and her legs were trembling, tears forming beneath her eyelids. Oh, finally.
He groaned into her ear, his body suddenly a little heavier on hers. "Oh, yes," he said. "Oh, yes."
He was so deep, God, it felt like coming home, his hand around her throat and his other hand gripping her hip, his cock filling her up, his forehead resting against the back of her neck. And if he was fully dressed and she was stark naked, well, that felt like coming home too. It felt like... like she was his, like she belonged to him, like she could just close her eyes and give up and let herself be used and everything would somehow impossibly be all right...
"Beautiful girl," he said, into her ear, and began to move.
"Don't come," he added, some time later, when he'd been rocking his hips against hers and his hand against her belly for what felt like hours but was probably less than ten minutes. "Not yet."
She had to bite her lip bloody to keep from whimpering. Don't come, when she was close already, and she knew he knew it...? But in some ways he was being kind. There had been times when he'd tortured her, danced her on the edge of orgasm with his hands and mouth and fingers and cock and still said don't come, and at least now he wasn't really doing anything to her, just chasing his own pleasure in her body. He hadn't worn a condom and for a moment she wondered if he'd leave her like this once he'd finished, sprawled naked on the bed with his come dripping out of her.
But he'd stopped, and she wanted nothing less than that even if it meant she couldn't come, and his hand around her neck tightened just a little. "What did I tell you? Answer me."
"Don't come," she whispered, and nearly sobbed aloud with relief when he started moving again.
"Good girl," he breathed, and peppered kisses along the back of her shoulders and neck. "Don't worry. I'll let you come before long. Just not quite yet."
"Thank you, sir," she gasped.
He laughed at that, and kissed the back of her neck again. "I told you not to talk, didn't I? That's another few minutes before you can come. You are welcome, though."
She had no idea how he could be so coherent, still. He was moving faster, in her, on her, and his breathing grew harsh in her ear, but apart from that he seemed entirely unaffected.
"This is what I'm going to do," he told her, a minute or so later. "I'm going to come inside you, like I wanted. Then, if you've been good, I'll let you come."
She couldn't help the whine that escaped, and winced, waiting for the punishment. He said nothing, though, only cupped his hand around her neck again and lifted, forcing her head back. She strained upwards, arching her back, bending back as far as she could go, and was rewarded when he dropped a kiss on her forehead.
"Beautiful," he said, and thrust into her again. "You can make noise, I don't mind that. Just don't talk."
Oh, thank God. She let her head fall forward again, and cried out now, every time he thrust, every time he rocked against her and kissed the back of her neck. "Beautiful," he whispered, into her ear, "beautiful, beautiful, oh--"
She felt him come; the hot rush inside her and the way he twitched, the way he pressed his face into the back of her shoulder, wrapped his arms tight around her, and just breathed for a moment. He always did that, always tucked himself as close to her as he could get, like he couldn't get enough of her. And even now, even so close and so ready to beg, she loved it, loved him, so much she could hardly fit in her skin.
He kissed the nape of her neck again, and left his mouth there for a long moment before he pulled away, pulled out of her and tapped her hip, gently. "On your back for me, love."
She rolled over, let her knees butterfly out around him, and took the kiss he gave her, warm and slow and loving. It... he loved her, so much, as much as she loved him and that still threw her every time she thought of it, still made her so frightened and grateful and blessed.
He kissed her again, quicker this time, then moved away. "So," he said, standing at her vanity, closing his flies. "Do you think you were good? Answer me."
"Yes, sir," she said, watching him, wishing he was back on the bed with her.
He took off his belt and coiled the leather in a circle on her vanity, around her earrings, then turned back to her, his expression unreadable. "Good enough for me to let you come?"
Was there even a right answer to that? "I..."
"Never mind," he said, and came back to the bed. "I think you've been good enough, and as you so eloquently said earlier, that's all that matters."
She closed her eyes in relief, and raised her hips just a little, a fraction of an inch off the quilt, pleading.
He laughed. "Single-minded, aren't you? Would you beg if I let you?"
She nodded, fervently, and lifted her hips again. He put a hand on her abdomen, precisely in the middle, and pressed her down to the quilt again, gentle but inexorable.
"Stay down," he told her, and went to move his hand, but then he paused, an odd look on his face, and rubbed his thumb slowly against her skin.
What was he doing? She couldn't even crane her neck up to look, could only look at his face and the mingled love and authority and fear and sorrow-- oh.
Oh, of course.
He traced the big scar with his forefinger, the one that ran from her left hip nearly to the bottom of her ribcage. That had been the first wound; she'd crumpled around the knife, and the man hadn't let go, dragging it upwards as she fell. The others were much smaller, delivered when she was already on the ground, two three four five six in quick succession, scattered across her abdomen. There was mostly no telling which was which, but the last one sat squarely between her hips, more rounded than the others. She knew it was the last one. The man had twisted the knife there.
She wanted badly to speak, or take him in her arms, or at least put her hand on his, reassuring; she was still here, still alive, still his. But he'd said no, no speaking, no moving, not even to serve him, so she lay quiescent under his hands, and waited.
It was a timeless while before he moved again, spreading his hand out to lie flat on her abdomen, and bending down to kiss her, slow and easy. "Darling heart," he breathed, against her mouth. "That will never happen again. I won't let it."
Of course it wouldn't. How could anything hurt her, when he took care of her, kept her so perfectly safe?
Still, he wasn't happy, and so she wasn't. In an attempt to restore the mood, she let her legs fall apart just a little more, so slightly it could be a natural consequence of gravity. From the look he shot her, he knew it wasn't an accident, but he let her get away with it, even cupped her vulva, rocking the heel of his hand against her clit again.
"You really want to come, hmm."
That likely didn't require an answer, but she tossed her head on the pillow anyway, and cried out sharply when he slid one finger and then another inside her. The hand on her abdomen held her down now, as she tried to push into his touch. He only had to lean forward a little and she was borne relentlessly down toward the mattress.
"Someday," he said, idly, "I want to cuff you, just like this, and put you on a Sybian, and then just... watch. See how long you can take it before you have to push yourself off. How long do you think you could take it?"
The thought made her shiver, made her try to arch her back and lift her hips into his hand, even though she knew it wouldn't work. He'd done things like that before; once he held a vibrator against her clit and fucked her while she writhed, and she knew that he liked to make her come and come and come again before he'd let her rest. But that... that would be different, nothing but her own will to hold her in place, her will and the desire to please him. And the Sybian was... she'd been on one before. It never let her rest. It made her come, and that time she only had to stay on for the one orgasm. The way he played, the way he wrung her body out, it might wreck her completely.
She couldn't wait.
He cupped his hand around her chin, tilted it up and forced her to meet his eyes. "I asked you a question. Answer it."
His tone was mild enough, but she shivered again, and choked out the words. "Yes, sir. I'm s-sorry, sir. I don't know how long."
"Not even a guess?" His hand left her chin, trailed down her neck, over her shoulder and down to her breasts to toy idly with a nipple. "How many orgasms?"
She scrambled for thought, tried to put the words together until he pinched her nipple, just sharp enough to be a reminder. "I don't know, sir," she gasped, just managing to turn her cry into words. "I don't... three?"
"Three," he repeated, a hint of wonder in his tone. "Yes, I think you could take it that long. I think you might be able to take up to five, but I'll only hold you to three."
"Yes, sir," and her voice wobbled a bit. So close, she was so close, if he would only...
"And someday," he went on, his fingers moving as slowly as his voice no matter how she squirmed, "I'm going to have you over your desk. When Julian's gone to lunch, and you don't have any appointments. I'll lock the door and take off your panties and have you right there, where anyone could see."
She sobbed at that, at the image; her hands clutching at the smooth wood of her desk, papers flying everywhere, his cock inside her and all the while she'd have to be so quiet, so good, because if someone found out...
"You're close, aren't you?" he asked, and she managed a nod, squirming under his hand. "Good. I like it when you're close. I like your face, and how you can barely hold yourself together. I like it when you let go for me." And suddenly he was there, his breath warm against her ear, his hand still working slowly in and out. "Let go for me. Now."
She did.
When she came down to earth again, he was lying next to her, hand resting on her belly. "Welcome back," he said, and kissed her. "How are you feeling?"
She shrugged, wordless for the moment, and threaded her fingers through his.
"All right then." He sat up. "Glass of water?"
She nodded, but when he moved to take his hand away, she tightened her grasp and pulled their joined hands up to rest just beneath her chin. Bless him, he didn't laugh at her, only reached up and stroked her hair. "When you're ready, love," he told her.
She liked the feeling of his skin against hers, and the bumps of his knuckles pressing against her jaw. And he was so patient with her, so... but there was only so long she could hold him, if she wanted her water. She slid their hands to the side, turned her head and kissed his knuckles, and then let go.
"All right," he said again, and removed his hand from hers, very slowly. "I'll be right back. You just stay there and relax."
She closed her eyes, still feeling obedient, and let herself drift into a sort of half-sleep as the water ran in the bathroom. A sort of exhausted relaxation took over, and by the time Peter came back into the room, she didn't even want to move enough to drink.
He knew her, knew the signs; he set the glass on the table and sat next to her, his hand finding its way to her hair again. "Come here," he said, and she found the will to roll over, let him rearrange her body until she lay with her head on one of his thighs. He combed one hand through her hair, slow and gentle. She wanted to purr from the sheer pleasure of it.
"All right, love?"
Miranda opened her eyes at his voice, and smiled sleepily up at him. "Mm," she said. "Feel wonderful."
He bent down and kissed her forehead. "Good. You look much more relaxed."
She hummed, melting into his touch. She liked this part as much as the play itself, when he stroked her hair and murmured praise. She liked the comfort and the care, and how he made her feel, so completely, utterly safe.
"You were so good for me," he was saying now, scratching his nails lightly against her scalp. She pushed up into his hand like an affectionate cat. "So good, and so lovely. You did so well."
"Hmm." She was tired now, her eyelids drooping under his ministrations. But they hadn't eaten... and that was odd, now that she thought of it. Shouldn't the food have come by now?
She asked him, and he laughed again, dropping a kiss on her mouth. "I should have known you'd notice that. I asked them to hold the order back for an hour, which means they should be delivering it--" He checked his watch, and she was struck by the realization that he hadn't taken it off-- "any minute."
"Mm." Miranda turned her face into the curve of his hip and closed her eyes again. "Can I stay here? When they come?"
"Of course." He ran his hand through her hair again. "You stay just like this, and I'll bring you the food."
She curled an arm around his waist, and turned her face into his stomach, and breathed.
--
Later that night, after he'd fed her and cuddled her, after she'd napped and worked a little, after they went to bed and turned out the light, he curled up behind her and put his arms around her waist. She liked the gentle weight on her side, and the warm solid presence of him at her back.
It really had been a wonderful day, Miranda thought, drowsing. A shorter workday than usual, and cooperative clients, and she'd even managed an entire hour for lunch with her brother. Then Peter, home so unexpectedly, and the chance to let go, to just be, and a lovely slow evening. It couldn't be like this all the time, she knew that, but it had only been nineteen months ago that she'd thought she would never have this ever again, and that wound still ached sometimes.
Peter shifted behind her, and she snuggled back against him, resting a hand over his. She'd been stupid to imagine she could ever have let him go. It might have been better for him if they'd never met, and maybe if he'd listened to her when she left him-- but she was selfish, and she would never give him up. Not now that she had him, not now that he'd stayed with her.
"You're thinking very loudly," Peter said, dryly.
She laughed, and closed her eyes against the dark bedroom, sleep coming in like the tide. "I'll try to stop."
"Mm," he said, and then, "Marry me."
At first she wasn't sure that she'd heard him correctly, but then, what else could he have said? But to say that now, when she had just been thinking... could he actually read her mind? That was a frightening thought.
Miranda wriggled around in his arms to face him. "What?"
"Marry me," he said again, and smiled at her. "I love you, and I want you to marry me."
She blinked at him, long and slow. "You... want me to marry you."
"Yes." No sign of exasperation in his voice, no frustration, only patience and love. "I guess it might be moving fast, but I missed you so much, while I was away." He was quiet for a moment, then added, "I want to keep you."
Miranda had to close her eyes at the shiver that went through her at the thought of being kept. No one had ever... she'd kept people, she'd protected people, but no one ever... "I want to be kept," she whispered, half to herself.
"Then marry me," Peter said. He leaned forward just a little, enough to rub the tip of his nose against hers. "We can have a long engagement or get married tomorrow, whatever you want. But I want to marry you."
She kept quiet for a moment, just feeling-- his breathing, steady in and out, his skin against hers, his fingers scratching lightly at the nape of her neck. He loved her. He loved her. It was enough.
She must have paused too long, because he tugged the blanket up over her shoulder, then added, "You can take as much time to think as you want. I can wait."
Miranda shook her head automatically, hating the uncertainty she heard in his voice. "No. No, I... yes."
There was a long pause, and then Peter said, carefully, "To which?"
"What?" Miranda realized how it must have sounded then, to him. God. She must be much closer to sleep than she thought, to be so scattered. "Oh. Yes, I'll marry you."
"Oh," he said, and then, "Good. Yes. All right. We'll talk about it in the morning?"
"Please," she said, and let her eyes drift close again, resting her forehead against his clavicle. "I'm tired."
He laughed, deep in his chest, and she felt it against her hand. "All right. Sleep well, love."
She would.
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YOU KNOW THIS IS THE SECOND TIME IN A MONTH I HAD TO GET MACROS FOR YOU.
I just.
That moment. When Miranda grabs Peter. And curls around him like an octopus. After all of that sexy and Miranda and yes.
I SQUEEED SO LOUD I SCARED THE OWL.
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Miranda loves Peter so goddamn much okay, and he loves her just as much and they are inseperable. So sayeth I. Thank you! And, uh, send my apologies to the owl? Is it a big owl or a little owl? The one at work was an ickle owl but he has since left, I think because the coworker he liked best quit and moved five hundred miles north.
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