“Slower,” you beg him.
“Slower everything?”
“Just slower,” you plead.
He pulls out of you and moves the knife away from your neck, throwing it aside. Then he smooths the hair away from your face, watching you closely. Your breath is still coming in gulps and pants, fear and reason warring within. “Trust me,” he whispers – the same man who just had a knife on you. But you nod, because you do want to trust him, and your body’s still hot with need.
He moves back off of you and helps you sit up, and then turns you collecting you so that you’re kneeling, facing the back of the couch, your back to him. You still feel exposed and scared – he doesn’t need the knife to tyrannize you anymore.
“Shh,” he says, stroking hands down your back. You can hear him moving behind you, and you both know an
