Page 71 of Misery
His fingers find me first, making sure I'm ready.
I'm more than ready.
I've been ready for a week, maybe longer.
Since that first night when he showed me pleasure didn't have to come with fear.
When he finally slides inside me, careful despite everything, I feel complete for the first time in seven months.
There's a sharp sting, a fullness that's foreign but not unwelcome.
He stays still, letting me adjust, pressing kisses to my face.
"Okay?"
"More than okay. Move. Please."
He moves slowly at first.
Testing. Learning what makes me gasp, what makes me dig my nails into his shoulders.
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, showing him I won't break.
The rhythm builds.
Pleasure overlays the discomfort until there's only sensation, only us, only this moment I'm claiming for myself.
"Mine," he growls against my throat.
"Yours," I agree. Then, because I need him to understand, "And you're mine."
"Always have been."
I come apart with his name on my lips, waves of pleasure different from before.
Deeper. More complete.
Like pieces of myself clicking back into place.
He follows, my name a prayer and curse.
After, we lie tangled together, sweat cooling, breathing slowly returning to normal.
I wait for regret. For panic. For the trauma to resurface.
It doesn't come.
Instead, there's just peace.
Satisfaction.
A sense of reclaiming something that was almost stolen from me.
"You okay?" he asks softly, fingers tracing patterns on my bare shoulder.
"Yes." I turn in his arms, face him. "I'm not broken, Oskar. Damaged, maybe. Healing, for sure. But not broken. Stop treating me like I am."
"I'll try."
