Page 33 of The Mobster’s Nurse

Something moves through me that isn't desire. Or isn't only desire.

"Okay," I say. "Then we'll try it. But the moment anything doesn't feel right, you tell me. We stop. No questions."

"You need a word," she says, and a small smile crosses her face. "That's how it works, right? Like in 50 Shades…A safe word."

"Yes," I say, surprised she knows this. Glad she does. "Pick one."

“Mmm, not yellow,” she insists. She thinks. "Chestnut."

I almost smile. "Chestnut it is."

She nods, satisfied. Like we've agreed on something that matters — because we have.

I carry the duffel bag into the bedroom. I set the candles around the room and light them one by one while she stands in the doorway in my bathrobe, watching. The blackout curtains turn the afternoon into something private and amber-lit. My bedroom looks different. Softer. I've never had cause to notice that before.

She approaches the bed slowly. Runs her hand over the padded cuffs with frank curiosity rather than anxiety. Then she looks up at me.

"I want to try these," she says. "One hand. To start."

I cross to her. "Then one hand it is." I agree.

I cuff her right wrist to the bedpost — padded, loose enough that she could pull free if she needed to, tight enough to feel real. She tests it gently. Nods.

"How does that feel?"

"Strange," she says honestly. "Good, strange."

"Good strange is good," I tell her. “We can always build up to bad strange if we’re feeling it. If good strange is just too vanilla for us.”

“You’d be bad, and I’d be strange,” she giggles.

I’m thinking that I’d prefer the other way around

She lets the robe fall. Lies back against the pillows, one wrist cuffed, the other arm free. She looks up at me in the candlelight with that open, decided expression, and I stand at the side of the bed for a moment just looking at her.

My woman. Here by choice. Entirely by choice.

"You're beautiful," I tell her. Not a growl. Just the truth, plainly.

She flushes. "You're still dressed."

I pull my shirt over my head. Her eyes move over me with unconcealed interest, and when I push my pants and underwear down, she makes a soft sound that does irreparable things to my self-control.

"I haven't even touched you," she says.

"Nobody's ever made me this wild," I say. "So obsessed."

"Me neither," she murmurs, her free hand reaching toward me.

I catch it. Press it back gently against the mattress.

"Let me," I tell her.

She exhales. Lets her arm go loose. Trusting me with it.

I climb onto the bed and bring my face close to her, but I don't rush. I kiss her inner thigh first. Then higher. I watch her breathing change, watch her free hand curl into the sheets. When I finally put my mouth on her, she arches up, and a moan escapes. It sounds like relief more than pleasure.

I take my time. Reading every sound she makes, every shift of her hips, learning what she likes and can't stand to be without. I slide one finger into her, then two, curling them in a slow rhythm until her thighs are trembling and she's pulling at the cuff not to escape it but because she needs something to hold onto.