The Super Fixed My Sink, Then Everything I Hadn't Said Was Broken novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Stay Where I Put You

On her bed with her hands above her head by his order alone, she stays still through two climaxes and asks for a third out loud.

I took the Blue Line home from the Loop on Thursday with a note folded in my coat pocket.

He had slid it under my door that morning, on the back of a hardware receipt, in square block capitals.

It said: TONIGHT. NINE. I KNOCK.

I read it more times on the train than I will admit.

At eight-thirty I took a shower I did not need and put on the old green robe.

At ten to nine I sat on the edge of my bed with my hands in my lap.

He knocked at nine exactly, two raps.

I opened the door in the robe, and he looked at the robe, and the tooth showed.

"Bedroom," he said.

"I know where my bedroom is."

"Then go there."

I went.

I heard him lock my deadbolt behind us, and my stomach dropped with a lurch I felt in my knees.

The lamp on the nightstand was on, low and yellow.

He stood in the doorway and took his time looking at me, at the robe, and my bare feet, and my hair, which I had left down.

"Take it off," he said.

I untied the belt and let the robe open.

Then I let it slide down my arms to the floor.

He didn't say anything for a long moment.

His eyes went over me slowly, my shoulders and the heavy weight of my breasts and my stomach and the width of my hips.

I did what I always do, which is reach to cover myself.

"Don't."

My hands stopped.

"Lie down on the bed. On your back."

I lay down.

The comforter was cool under my shoulder blades.

He came and stood over me, still dressed, in his work shirt and jeans, with the lamp behind his head.

"Put your hands above your head."

I put them there.

"Keep them there. Hold the rail if you want to. If they move, I stop."

"That's it? That's the rule?" I said.

"That's the rule."

"You're not going to tie me up."

"Not tonight." He sat down on the edge of the mattress and put his palm flat on my stomach, and the heat of it spread out through my whole belly. "You won't need it."

He was right.

He kissed me first, slowly, with one hand on my jaw, and then his mouth moved down my throat to my collarbone.

He took his time at my breasts.

He licked one nipple and then drew it into his mouth.

I arched off the bed with a moan, and my hands tightened on the rail of the headboard.

"Good," he said against my skin. "Stay there."

I stayed.

He moved down my body one inch at a time, kissing my ribs, the soft part of my stomach, the crease of my hip.

He pushed my knees apart and settled between them with his shoulders under my thighs.

"Look at me."

I lifted my head off the pillow, and he was looking up at me from between my legs with his dark eyes, completely serious.

"You keep your eyes on me," he said. "The whole time."

Then he put his mouth on me.

It was different from Tuesday.

On Tuesday I'd had the counter to hold and a window to hide in, and tonight there was nothing but a bed and his eyes and my own hands gripping the iron.

He licked me in long, slow strokes and then in small tight circles on my clit, and when I closed my eyes he stopped.

"Eyes."

I opened them.

He started again.

I felt it gather low in my stomach, tight and hot, and my hips began to lift toward his mouth.

"Hold still."

"I can't," I said.

"Yes, you can."

He put one forearm across my hips and pinned me to the bed, and I whimpered.

He slid two fingers inside me.

They were thick and sure, and he curled them up and found a place that made me cry out.

He sucked my clit into his mouth at the same moment.

I came so fast that it surprised me.

It broke over me in a long shudder, and my back came off the mattress, and my hands, my hands stayed on the rail.

I held on until my knuckles hurt.

He kept going.

He did not stop when I'd finished.

He kept his fingers moving and his tongue flat against me, gentle now, slow, and the aftershocks turned into something sharper that I could barely stand.

"Rafa, it's too much."

"Tell me to stop."

It was a dare, and we both knew it.

I looked down the length of my body at his dark head between my thighs.

"Don't you dare."

He made a low, satisfied sound against me, and I felt it all the way through.

He worked me up again from that raw place, rubbing, licking, slipping his fingers in and out in a rhythm that ran straight up my spine.

It was almost painful, and I wanted more of it.

I was babbling, saying yes and please and don't stop, and my heels dug into his back.

"There," he said, when I started to shake. "Not yet. Hold it."

He eased off.

He let me hover, panting, with my fingers white on the headboard.

"Rafa."

"Hold it."

Then he gave me one slow stroke of his tongue, and I came again.

It was harder than the first.

It went through me again and again while I rode it out with my head thrown back and my mouth open and a long cry that I'm sure Dolores heard on the first floor.

My hands were still above my head.

I could not believe it.

I lay there shaking, soaked in sweat, with the world gone white at the edges, and I still had my hands up.

He crawled up my body and kissed me.

I tasted myself on his mouth, salt and sweet.

He pulled back and looked down at me, and his eyes were black and his chest was heaving.

"That's two," he said. "You kept them up."

"You said if I moved you'd stop."

"I would have."

"I know." I swallowed. "That's why I didn't."

He stroked the damp hair off my forehead, and his face went soft.

It was the first tender thing he'd done all night, and it frightened me more than anything else.

"Now," he said. "I want to give you the third one."

"I don't know if I can."

"You can," he said.

"Rafa, I've never..."

"What?"

I didn't know how to say it.

I had lain next to a man for eleven years who made a little game of waiting for me to ask for something so that he could say he'd have given it if I had.

Eventually I had learned not to ask.

It had been easier than hearing him tell me I was impossible to give anything to.

"I don't ask," I said. "For things. It's not that I don't want them."

"I know."

"How do you know?" I said.

"Because I've watched you carry your own groceries up three flights for eight months."

My throat closed.

He kissed my forehead, and then my eyelids, and then the corner of my mouth.

"Tell me what you want," he said. "Say it."

"I want you."

"Better. Where?"

My face burned.

"Say it, Magda."

"Inside me." The words came out cracked and small. "I want you inside me."

"Better."

He stood up beside the bed and took off his clothes.

I watched him do it, which I had not been able to do on Tuesday, in the dark, with my back to him.

He was broad and hard and beautiful, with a thick scatter of black hair on his chest.

The scars on his forearms were pale in the lamplight.

His cock was heavy and thick against his stomach, and when he saw me looking, it jumped.

"Hands," he said.

"Still up."

"Good."

He knelt on the bed between my thighs.

He took himself in his hand and rubbed the head along the wet of me, up and down, and I whined, high and helpless.

"Look at me."

I looked.

He pushed in.

It was slow and deep, and my body took him in a long, slow ripple that made us both groan.

I felt every inch of him settle inside me.

I was so wet and so sensitive from the other two that the first stroke made my whole spine tighten.

"There," he said, hoarse. "Okay. I've got you."

He braced himself on his forearms on either side of my head, so that his chest hovered over mine, and began to move.

He moved slowly.

He drew almost all the way out and then slid in again, deep, with his hips rolling.

Every time his pelvis ground against my clit my vision blurred.

"Hands stay up."

"They're up," I said.

"Good girl."

He fucked me like that for a long time.

He kissed me while he did it, my mouth, my jaw, my neck, and he said filthy, perfect things in my ear.

He told me how wet I was.

He told me I was taking him so well, that he could feel me clenching around him, that he was going to feel me come on his cock.

"I want that," he said. "I want it so much. Give it to me."

"I want to."

"Then do it. Come on my cock, Magda. Let go."

I let go.

It rose up from some place I hadn't known I had, deep and slow and enormous, and it wasn't like the other two.

It didn't rush.

It rolled through me with my whole body wrapped around him and my hands locked above my head, and my voice broke on his name.

He went with me.

He thrust deep and held, and I felt him spill inside me, hot and heavy, with a groan he pressed into my neck.

We lay with our bodies slick and our hearts slamming against each other.

After a while he reached up and took hold of my wrists, one in each hand, and drew them down from the rail.

My arms ached.

He kissed the inside of each wrist, softly.

"You can put them down now," he said.

I laid my arms across his back, and for a long while neither of us spoke.

He rolled off me and onto his side and pulled me against his chest.

I lay with my face in his shoulder.

He smelled of soap and machine oil, and I could hear his heart settle.

"Magda."

"Mm."

"What do you do," he said, "with the hand that never asks for anything?"

I thought about the fist I make in my pocket in the Loop when someone steps on my foot.

I thought about the one in my lap at my parents' table.

"I hold it behind my back," I said.

His arm tightened around me.

"Good," he said.

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