Chapter 11: Slow

The next night Clara did not wait to be asked.

She went to his room at ten, with her hair down, and found him sitting on the edge of the bed with his shirt off, rubbing his right thigh.

The leg was stiff, and he had been hiding it all day.

"Let me," she said.

"It's not necessary."

"I know. Lie down."

He looked at her, and then he lay back on the grey sheets with the lamp on, and she knelt beside him.

She worked her thumbs into the long muscle above his knee, slowly.

He closed his eyes.

"You don't have to do that," he said, quietly.

"Neither did you, with the door."

He did not answer.

She felt the knot loosen under her hands, a little at a time, and then she bent down and kissed the scar on his thigh.

His breath caught.

"Clara."

"Tonight it's my pace," she said. "You can tell me if I'm wrong."

She was not wrong.

She took her time with him, his hips, the hard line of his stomach, and the places that made him swear.

His hands closed in the sheets, because she had told him to keep them there.

When she took him in her mouth, he made a noise she would hear for days.

"Look at me," she said, afterward, climbing over him.

He did.

His face was open and flushed, and his dark eyes were fixed on her, and for one moment it was not a stranger's face at all.

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