Page 37 of The Freeuse Proposal
There’s a film between me and the world. The water is hot, Leo’s hands are gentle, and I know all of this should feel good. But I can’t quite reach it.
When the water starts to cool, he helps me out and wraps me in a fluffy towel. He dries me off slowly, then disappears into his closet and returns with a soft gray cashmere sweater that smells like him.
“Arms up.”
I obey automatically, and he pulls the sweater over my head. It’s enormous on me, hanging past my thighs, the sleeves covering my hands completely. He adds a pair of soft flannel pants that I have to roll at the waist, and thick wool socks that bunch around my ankles.
“There.” He cups my face in his hands, studying me. “How are you? Scale of one to ten where ten is fabulous?”
I consider. The emptiness is still there, but the world feels a little less muted. I can smell the lavender bath bomb mixing with his normal citrus scent, and my stomach gives a tentative flutter that might be hunger. “Maybe a three?”
He nods, unsurprised. “Let’s get some food in you.”
In the kitchen, he sits me on a stool at the island and sets about making breakfast. No singing today, I notice. He’s focused entirely on me, glancing over every few seconds like he’s checking that I’m still holding it together. The kitchen fills with the sound of eggs sizzling and the smell of butter melting in the pan.
Scrambled eggs appear in front of me, along with buttered toast and tea with honey. The smell makes my stomach turn, and I push the plate away before I can think about it.
Leo pushes it back. “Eat, pet.” His voice is gentle but firm, that commanding tone that always makes something inside me settle. “You need fuel to recover.”
The command loosens something in my ribcage—that familiar comfort of being told what to do. I pick up the fork and take a bite. Then another. The food is tasteless in my mouth, but I keep eating because pleasing him is easier than thinking right now.
By the time I finish eating, something has been nagging at me. The fantasy of being shared by two men. The memory sends a flutter through my stomach, cutting through the numbness for the first time all morning. I remember the certainty and desire I experienced even in that haze.
Leo is washing dishes at the sink, his back to me. I watch the movement of his shoulders, the way his shirt stretches across them, and try to find the words for something I’ve never said out loud.
“Leo?”
He turns, drying his hands on a towel. “Yes, lass?”
“Yesterday, when I was...” I trail off, not sure how to describe it. Under? Gone? Floating in some space where nothing existed but his voice and the desperate, craving need? “When I was deep. I thought about something.”
He moves to stand in front of me, leaning against the counter. His expression is open, attentive, giving me his full focus. “I’m listening.”
“You mentioned Dane coming for Christmas. And I started...” My cheeks flush hot. “I started imagining what it would be like. If you—if we—“
The words stick in my throat. I can’t quite say it out loud, not yet, not when I still feel so raw and exposed and strange in my own skin.
But Leo’s eyes sharpen with understanding. He knows what I’m trying to say.
“Alice.” His voice is serious, and he reaches out to take my hand, his fingers steady around mine. “I hear you. And we will have this conversation.”
Relief floods through me. He’s not dismissing it or telling me I’m crazy for wanting it.
“But not today.”
I blink, the relief curdling into confusion. “What? Why not?”
“Because you’re in subdrop, lass.” His thumb strokes across my knuckles, soothing even as his words frustrate me. “Your walls are down. I won’t take advantage of that.”
“But I know what I want.”
“Maybe you do.” He squeezes my hand gently. “And if that’s true, you’ll still want it when you’re steady again.” His gaze holds mine, serious and unwavering, with that dominant intensity I’ve come to crave. “I won’t let you consent to something that significant when you’re not fully yourself. That’s not how this works.”
I want to argue, to insist that I’m fine, that the subdrop doesn’t change anything. But underneath the frustration is something else. Something that feels like safety.
He’s protecting me.
“When you’re more like yourself,” he continues, “we’ll talk about this properly. I promise. But for now—“ He lifts my hand to kiss my knuckles. ”—just let me take care of you.”
