Three little words

WQ: Round 369 (August 17-23): Headache, Tired, Pumpkin Spice, Midnight

The candle guttered in Sean's wake, its soft glow dimming before flickering back to life.

Satin ties whispered against linen as Sarah's back arched, a low moan slipping past her lips as she cursed herself for laughing earlier — Sean’s knots had been laughable once; now they held her in place with a polite, merciless certainty.

She felt so alive right then, aware of everything, the smell of his aftershave, the taste of pumpkin spice and wax on the air, the gentle heat spreading across her arse and thighs.

A small scrape of a drawer and he was suddenly there, a shadow beside the bed. The warmth of his body pressed close, his slow exhalations tickling her ear. He cupped her jaw, thumb tracing the hollow there. “You can make this stop,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “It's just three little words.”

Her pride flared like a match. The whole stupid wager pulsed through her—months of ridiculous dares, late-night challenges, the way they’d pushed each other’s limits until ordinary stubbornness became sport. She met his breath with a shake of her head, letting silence answer for her. 'Say it,' said the part of her that wanted to melt; don't,' said the other, stubborn and delicious.

He watched her like he’d been reading her all evening, then — quick as a blink — his palm landed on her skin. The slap was sharp and immediate, a punctuation that made the candle's flame dance. Her breath hissed out - that'd actually stung...

For a heartbeat she tasted salt and heat and the absurd clarity of being absolutely exposed. His fingers feathered over the same place, gentle as if apologising for the pain he'd just caused, his breath hot against her ear. “You’re okay?” he asked, his concern evident.

He just didn't have it in him, she thought, trying not to giggle as she answered him. “I’m great!” She smiled, unable to help herself, "My kid sister hits harder than you do!"

"So be it." he said infuriatingly calmly, the rasping of his belt loud in her ears before he went back to his task. He alternated — sternness and sugar. A wordless performance, a flurry of staccato lashes marking her skin, a stroke or kiss anywhere that threatened to undo her resolve.

He leaned close enough that she could feel the tiny battle between his calm and the tremor in his hands. “Three words,” he reminded her softly, like a man reciting a ritual he both relished and feared.

Sarah let the temptation coiling inside her tighten. Memory made the room small: their first drunk dare at a party, the blindfolds and giggles; the slow escalation of challenges that led here. She squeezed her eyes shut against the cloudiness building behind them and imagined surrender as performance — a line to stand on and then step off at will. She hadn’t consented to losing herself entirely. She had consented to the game.

Outside, the clock let out a long, resonant series of chimes. The sound cut the room in two. Between the last chime and its echo, everything stopped as if someone had pulled a glass shade over the world. The world inside the bedroom snapped into relief: muscles unknotted, breath came back in easier quantities, the heat that had sharpened into ache softened into all-over thrum.

Sean exhaled, "Midnight." He held himself taut for one second, then was suddenly softer. He withdrew with the careful politeness of a man closing a book he treasured. They shared a look — her face flushed, a worry-laced softness in his eyes — and the air filled with the small, ridiculous normalities that followed any performance of intensity.

“So,” he said finally, the hitch in his breath betraying what his composure hid, “tomorrow then?”

“If you’re man enough,” she replied, rubbing the warmth from her seat with a mock-serious frown. She felt ridiculous and electric and ridiculous again. The corner of his mouth tugged.

“I’m not giving up now, little miss,” he said, as if the phrase were a promise and a dare.

Sarah’s grin was wicked enough to be almost cruel. She reached toward the nightstand and, with exaggerated care, palmed the vibrator she’d pretended not to have brought. His expression folded into immediate, comedic aghast.

“Hey—none of that. You agreed. No fun until—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” She wagged a finger, then licked a laugh between teasing words. “But I don’t know how I’m going to sit through three hours of lectures tomorrow.”

He softened then, real concern cracking his play-voice. “Was it too much?” His hand hovered above her leg, uncertain.

Sarah rolled her eyes and, with the mischief of someone who'd lost and won at once, flicked the vibrator like a sceptre and gave his backside a mock smack. “Didn’t say it, did I?” she drawled. “But turnabout’s fair play.”

He blinked, and stepped back covering his butt, before surrendering to the grin she gave him. “You know,” he said, kissing her knuckles, then her temple. The touch was ordinary and fierce all at once. “I love you.”

She returned the words easily, the phrase slipping between them with the familiarity of promise. “Love you too.” They fell into the comfortable shuffle of settling for the night, hands warm, laughter soft, candlelight painting them something kinder than their earlier theatrics.

Sarah lay back and let the memory of the sting and the tenderness thread through her. Sean tucked an errant curl behind her ear and she smiled, crooked and private, closing her eyes on thoughts of what had been, and what was yet to be tried.

She felt him move away. Heard the brief puff of breath and smelt the smoke. Heard the smile in his voice as he spoke.

"You know," he laughed, "I'm tired, think I may just have a headache tomorrow."

966 Words.

Part Two ▼

"Three Little Words (2)"