Her master brought the quarantine to an early end

Maite washed the dishes with careful slowness, measuring every movement so as not to strain the scar. It had been just over five weeks since the cesarean, and she still felt a dull pull every time she bent over the counter. Even so, she did not complain. She liked having the house in order for when Andrés got back from the studio.

The kitchen smelled of lemon and warm milk. On the living-room monitor, Olivia slept with her fists closed beside her face. Maite allowed herself an instant of stillness, her hands sunk in the water, thinking about the new life the three of them were building.

They had been strange weeks. First the pregnancy, then the cesarean, and then that odd pause in which her body had stopped belonging entirely to her and had become a refuge for someone else. She understood it. She accepted it. But there was something she missed with a force that surprised even herself, and it was not sleep or the freedom she had had before. It was the way Andrés looked at her when he wanted her.

She did not hear Andrés’s footsteps until he was behind her, his chest almost brushing her back.

—Do you need anything? —she asked without turning, though she already recognized the heat of his body.

—I want to talk to you —he said.

There was something in his tone. That soft gravity Maite knew only too well. In the three years they had been playing this game, she had learned to read every inflection in his voice, and that one meant only one thing: the decision had already been made.

She turned off the tap, dried her hands on the apron, and slowly turned around.

—I’m listening.

Andrés did not answer right away. He took her wrist, not hard, and guided her out of the kitchen. Maite followed him. She knew where he was taking her even before they crossed the hallway: to his office, that room with dark walls and lowered blinds where she always felt different, smaller, more willing.

***

—There are three days left until the six weeks are up —he said, closing the door behind him—. Three days, Maite. Do you really think I need to wait three days to take what is mine?

She swallowed. Part of her body responded before her mind did, a tingling low in her belly that betrayed her instantly.

—The doctor said between six and eight weeks —she murmured—. And the scar still bothers me. I don’t know if it’s a good idea to rush things.

Andrés looked at her with that half smile she hated and desired in equal measure.

—I didn’t ask you if it’s a good idea. I told you what’s going to happen.

Maite lowered her eyes. Her heart was pounding against her ribs. They had gone weeks without touching each other, and her body had begun to forget what that tension, that surrender, felt like. She remembered it all at once.

—What if I hurt myself? —she asked in a very low voice.

—Then we’ll do it carefully —he replied, drawing closer until there was barely any air between them—. Slowly. Whatever you feel you can’t do, you tell me and I stop. You know that. I always stop.

And there it was: the word that held the whole game together. She could stop him with a syllable and he would step away without arguing. That certainty was precisely what let her let go. Maite knew it. That was why she had given him the reins so many times.

—All right —she whispered—. But I want to do it my way first. Let me.

Andrés arched a brow, amused.

—You? Negotiating?

—Asking —she corrected, and knelt down.

***

The wooden floor was cold beneath her knees, but Maite barely noticed. She opened his pants with fingers that trembled a little, not from fear but from desire held back for weeks. She wanted to begin like this, with something she could control, something that would not ask the body to give more than it was ready to give.

Andrés sank his fingers into her hair. He did not pull. He simply held her, setting a silent rhythm that she obeyed without a word being necessary. It was that detail, the quiet firmness of his hand, that always undid her. He did not force her into anything; he showed her the way and waited for her to walk it of her own free will.

—That’s it —he said, his voice rough—. Good girl.

Those two words ran down her spine like an electric current. Maite closed her eyes and focused on the heat, on the weight of his hand at the nape of her neck, on his increasingly ragged breathing over her head. For those minutes the scar did not exist, nor the exhaustion, nor the baby monitor. Only he existed, and the way she could undo him.

Just when she felt Andrés’s tension reach its limit, he stopped her. He took her by the shoulders and lifted her up.

—No —he said—. Not like this. I want to finish inside you.

Maite felt her legs weaken.

—Andrés…

—Slowly —he repeated, reading the fear on her face—. I promised you.

***

He sat her on the desk, sweeping papers and the laptop aside with his arm without looking where they fell. Maite’s legs dangled over the edge, and he positioned himself between them, his hands open on her thighs, parting them with a slowness that was almost a question.

—If it hurts, you say so —he murmured against her neck.

She nodded, unable to speak. Andrés lifted her skirt to her waist with deliberate patience, as if he had all the time in the world. His fingers found the path they knew by heart and Maite arched, surprised by how ready her own body was, by how much she had missed it without allowing herself to.

—You’ve been holding back for weeks —he murmured, reading her as always—. I can tell. You don’t need to pretend with me.

Maite closed her eyes. He was right, as he almost always was. She had learned long ago that lying to Andrés was useless: he knew her better than she knew herself, and that transparency, far from making her uncomfortable, set her free. With him she did not have to pretend to be strong or decisive or anything at all. She only had to be there and let herself be carried along.

—Look at me —he ordered.

Maite opened her eyes. Andrés had his jaw clenched, holding back, and that moved her more than any roughness could have. He leaned in and kissed her, deep and slow, while he stroked her until she began pushing her hips against his hand, asking without words.

—Please —Maite said at last.

—Please what?

—Please, make me yours again.

Andrés smiled against her mouth. He positioned himself, pressed carefully, attentive to every expression on her face. Maite held her breath, tense, expecting pain that never came. He entered her slowly, millimeter by millimeter, giving her body time to remember.

—Okay? —he asked, motionless.

—Okay —she gasped—. Keep going.

***

He moved with a restraint that Maite found more erotic than any hard thrust. Every stroke was measured, deep, attentive to her. He held her hips with one hand and with the other found her face, his fingers brushing her lips until she opened them and accepted them.

—You’re mine —he said, and it was not a question.

—I’m yours —Maite replied, and saying it made something inside her finally let go completely.

Pleasure built in slow waves, different from before, deeper. Fear had turned into something else: complete surrender, the certainty that he was holding her, that he would not let her fall. She clung to his forearms, her nails marking his skin.

—Andrés, I’m going to…

—Do it —he said against her ear—. Come for me.

Maite shattered into a thousand pieces. The orgasm ripped through her all at once, so intense she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out and waking the baby. Andrés kept moving while she trembled, drawing it out, and only when he felt her utterly undone did he allow himself to finish, driving deep, holding her against his chest.

They stayed like that for a long while, wrapped around each other on the desk in disarray, their breathing searching for its normal rhythm.

—Did I hurt you? —he asked, brushing a damp lock of hair off her forehead.

Maite shook her head. Her eyes were wet, but she was smiling.

—No —she said—. You made me feel alive again.

***

Olivia’s cry came through the monitor, thin and urgent. Maite sat up slowly, feeling her body changed, claimed. She straightened her clothes and went to get the baby while Andrés sank back into the armchair with that satisfied-man expression she knew so well.

She came back a few minutes later with Olivia held to her breast and sat down beside him. Andrés slipped an arm over her shoulders and drew her against his side.

—Thank you —she said softly.

—For what?

—For waiting just enough. And for not waiting too long.

Andrés gave a low laugh and kissed the top of her head.

—Three days felt like an eternity to me —he admitted—. And you’d been looking at me for weeks like you wanted to ask me for the same thing.

Maite did not deny it. She rested her head on his shoulder and watched her daughter nurse with her eyes closed, oblivious to the world. She thought that the strange balance they had built between them —him in command, her surrendered, both of them caring for each other— was what made her feel safer than ever.

—Next time —he said, almost half asleep—, I’m not going to ask if you’re ready. I’ll decide it myself.

Maite smiled against his shirt.

—I’m counting on it —she murmured.