Page 57 of Threads That Bind Us
“When we’re together, I…” he stutters, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m in control. That’s the person you know me as. Decisive, vindictive, exacting. I want to be the man you want.”
The feeling in my chest gets tighter as his eyes meet mine, filled with confusion. It’s rare for Charlie’s emotions to be clear on his face, but this is a moment of true vulnerability.
“You are notjustthose things.” I press my fingers into his palm and slide them so we’re interlocked. “There’s so much more to you than that. You can be cruel and kind and everything in between. You go into the world and willingly bloody your hands for what you know is right, and then you come home and cook for me and quiz Ana on SAT questions. This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been soft with me, Charlie.”
He squeezes my hand, his eyes dropping to where they’re interlocked.
“It’s not just wanting to be soft, Gwen.” He takes a deep breath, like he’s fortifying himself for something. He’s afraid, I realize. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Charlie afraid before. “I want to give everything to you. I want to hear your voice telling me how to move, how to touch.” A silence, just two beats too long. “I want to submit. To you. Here.”
He’s shaking under my fingers and I can feel his pulse ripping through him like a tide.
“Is there something wrong with wanting that?” I ask, cradling his cheek with the hand not grasped in his.
His Adam's apple bobs with a hard swallow.
“Submission is weakness.” He nuzzles his chin into my palm like his body’s natural reaction opposes his words. “I forcesubmission from people all the time. I bring them pain and terror, and when they finally break for me, they havelost.And if I give that to you, you’ll control all of me, and I don’t know who I’ll be anymore.”
My heart feels like it’s in a vice, his words pained and vulnerable. I think about the way he touched me tonight, every kiss and breath. And the moment that stands out more than any other is the way the wordpleasesounded, him begging me to let him touch me.
It’s never been something I’ve consciously thought about before. No former partner has ever asked me to submit or to take control. Sure, I feel more comfortable making choices for my everyday life, but it was never something that bled into my bedroom, or my partner’s, or the walk in at work. But when I think about Charlie begging for me, heat fills my chest like a bonfire.
“I think I would like it,” I say as I drag my fingernails down his neck, shoulder, arm. “My life has been nothing but chaos until I met you. Controlling what I can has always felt good, natural. I don’t want the demanding, decisive version of you. I want you, whatever version is the most honest. Whatever version brings us the most pleasure.”
He shakes his head like it’s not possible to believe.
“Even if that was true, I couldn’t put that on you. I promised to take care of you.”
A familiar heaviness tugs at my chest at how much he’s thought about this, how careful he is that he never adds to my burden. Since the moment I met him, Charlie has been softening every blow that comes toward me, making the parts of my life he can influence as easy as possible. And I think I’ve done that for him too—given him a soft place to land in a world that’s purposefully, necessarily hard. Taken care of him in the ways I’m able to. Met his viciousness. Butmaybe this is another thing that I can give him that feeds me, too.
“But Charlie,” I whisper, leaning my body into his, “you looked so pretty on your knees for me.”
He takes a moment, but eventually he meets my eyes. Fear and desire battle in equal spades in his expression, and I wish there was some way to convince him of how I feel.
“Are you sure?” His voice shakes as he asks, and I squeeze his hand.
“We’ll take it slow. Just be together in whatever way feels natural,” I murmur, sliding closer to him on the bed and resting my head on his shoulder. “There are no expectations here. We can figure this out together.”
The tension in his body loosens, and he sighs as he wraps his arm around my hip and pulls me close. It feels good to be wrapped around each other like this. Right. When it seems he’s finally relaxed, I shift and rest my forehead against his.
“Can I touch you, Charlie?” I ask, placing a featherlight kiss against his lips. He chases my mouth as I pull away, nodding. “I need to hear you say it.”
He opens his eyes and looks at me like he can’t believe what’s happening is real.
“Please, Gwen.”
Even though my body is pleading for me to go fast, I do my best to honor my word.
With my hands cradling his face, I press my lips to his. The kiss is slow and gentle, sweet and perfect. Charlie plants his hands on the bed, gripping the comforter like he’s afraid to move. I kiss his lips, his jaw, the column of his throat, every leaf of the olive branches inked on his neck. His breathing is heavy, and his shoulders shake a bit, and I wonder if it’s fear or restraint. I fiddle with a button on his shirt, enjoying the way his breath sharpens when my fingernails brush his chest.
“Can I do this?” I ask, releasing the first button. He grips the bed tighter.
“Please,” he whimpers, and I acquiesce.
Pushing the shirt off his shoulders, I trail kisses down his arm and back, up his neck, until I’m back at his mouth.
Each time we move to a new item of clothing—his belt, his undershirt, his pants—we go through the same process. I ask, he begs, I press my mouth to every inch of skin I can find. If I thought moving slowly would relieve the tension, I couldn't have been more wrong. Every touch from me makes his voice more desperate the next time I ask for permission. Every inch of control he gives up to me fills me with a sense of euphoria I can’t explain. Like his trust is an aphrodisiac. When Charlie’s in nothing but his boxers, I slip off the bed and stand in front of him, a near perfect inverse of our positions on the kitchen table.
“Do you want to touch me, Charlie?” I ask, and when he nods, I reach forward, pull his hand, and place it on my hip. “Go ahead.”