Page 153 of Their Arrangement
And he moved.
Forward.
Lower.
Kneeling.
Right there, in front of me.
My legs tried to close. Not out of fear. Out of shame.
My thighs weren’t long and toned. They were soft. Thick. Flesh pressed against flesh. The blood between them felt hot and slick and too much. Too ugly.
But Wolfe? He didn’t flinch. Didn’t grimace. He just… looked.
His eyes flicked to mine. Held. And I saw it. Not disgust. Not pity. Just stillness. Like I was something precious. Even now. Especially now.
“May I?”
His voice was low.
Rough.
Reverent.
I swallowed hard. Nodded.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a blackpouch.
Unzipped it.
Inside: tampons. Pads. Wipes. Everything. Emergency kit. Preparedness masked as devotion.
“Take what you need,” he said. “Or let me do it.”
My lips parted. I should’ve spoken. Should’ve said no. But all I could whisper was:
“I… can’t reach. The corset.”
His jaw flexed once. Then he nodded. Stepped closer. His fingers brushed the ribbon at my spine.
Slow.
Deliberate.
One pull. Then another.
He unlaced me like he was unwrapping something breakable. Each inch of loosened tension let me breathe deeper. But not easier. Because the shame didn’t leave. It shifted. Into something else. Something worse.
Want.
He reached for the waistband of my panties next. Slid them down. Slowly. They stuck at the crease of my thighs—damp with blood and heat. He didn’t comment. Didn’t look away. Just moved with the kind of gentleness that made me ache.
He opened the wrapper.
And inserted the tampon.
Slow.
