Ryan had always believed he'd grow old with Rowan. From their first kiss under the bleachers in high school to the house they bought together just after their wedding, every memory he cherished had her in it. She was the fire in his chest, the calm in his storms, and the steady, dominant hand in their most intimate moments. She knew how to touch him, how to command him, how to make him feel completely safe in surrender.
When cancer took her, it didn't feel like he lost a person--it felt like he lost his axis. The world spun differently. Wrongly. Quieter, except for the ache.
Megan, Rowan's mother, had moved into their guest house years before. She never intruded. She gave them privacy, understood boundaries. But after Rowan's diagnosis, she became an anchor--for both of them. She had wiped Ryan's tears more than once, held Rowan's hand through the hardest nights, and when the end finally came, Megan stayed.
Not out of obligation.
Out of love.
She'd practically raised Ryan after his own mother died when he was eighteen. His father had never really been in the picture, and Megan... Megan had stepped in with kindness, calm strength, and a surprising understanding of his grief. Her presence was a balm he didn't realize he needed. Over the year after Rowan's death, she became a constant again--but this time it was different.
They cooked together. Sat on the porch and talked long into the night. Sometimes they didn't talk at all. Grief hung heavy, but so did the comfort. And somewhere in that strange space between loss and healing, something else began to stir. A tension. Quiet. Subtle. Dangerous.
Ryan noticed it in the way she touched his arm when handing him coffee. The way her voice dipped when she told him he was too hard on himself. The way her eyes lingered.
He tried to ignore it. He hated himself for noticing. She was Megan. His mother-in-law. But...
She wasn't his mother.
And Rowan... Rowan had known Ryan's submissive nature. She'd embraced it, loved it, explored it deeply. He sometimes wondered, guiltily, if Megan knew. If Rowan had ever confided in her. If her dominance had come... honestly.
It was a Saturday morning. The sun poured through the kitchen windows as Megan read off a list, glasses perched low on her nose, a pen tapping lightly against the counter. She was going over the week's projects--cleaning out the gutters, oiling the deck furniture, trimming back the vines.
Ryan, sipping coffee, chuckled and said with a smirk, "You're awfully bossy for someone not doing the work."
Megan didn't miss a beat. She looked up at him, a sly smile curling on her lips, and said with a wink, "Where do you think my daughter got it from?"
Something in his chest clenched.
He swallowed.
Her eyes held his for just a second too long. And in that breath, a silent conversation passed between them. A boundary trembled. And Ryan felt it, raw and real.
She knew.
And she wasn't stepping back.
The air in the kitchen felt warmer than it should have, though the windows were open and spring teased the breeze with hints of lilac and cut grass. Megan read the last of the to-dos from her notepad, unaware--or perfectly aware--of how long Ryan's eyes had been on her lips.
Or maybe she was very aware.
"...and the attic needs organizing. I know you've been putting that one off," she said, glancing over the rim of her glasses at him like a teacher scolding a lazy student. Her tone was playful, but beneath it, firm. Expectant.
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "You're a bit of a tyrant, you know that?"
She gave him that same sly smile, folding the list in half with slow, deliberate fingers. "You always followed Rowan's instructions without whining," she said, casually, as she reached for her coffee. "Maybe I should be worried I don't have the same... authority."
Her voice lingered over that word. Just a bit.
Ryan froze, his mug halfway to his lips. She didn't clarify. Didn't laugh. Just turned and walked to the sink, hips swaying under soft denim. He looked away, trying not to watch her too long.
But she knew.
That smile wasn't just playful. It was calculated. A test.
And Ryan... wanted to fail it.
Later, in the yard, she handed him the hedge clippers and told him to mind the camellias. "I want the shape round--not uneven like last time," she said, pointing with her finger, then pausing. "Unless you'd like me to show you... how I want it done."
His heart beat faster at her phrasing. She didn't touch him. Didn't need to.
She walked away again, back straight, chin slightly lifted. And Ryan got to work like a man under orders.
By afternoon, his shirt was soaked through, and Megan appeared with a cool glass of lemonade. She held it out, but didn't give it to him. Just stood there, holding the glass, until he looked up at her.
"You're learning," she said softly.
He took the drink from her hand, and for a moment their fingers brushed--too long to be innocent. She didn't pull away.
Neither did he.
That evening, after dinner--something simple, comforting, that she cooked without asking if he was hungry--she surprised him by standing behind his chair and setting her hands on his shoulders. Not massage. Not quite.
Just pressure.
Weight.
"Relax," she said, fingers pressing a little firmer. "You've been good today."
That word--good--cracked something in him. Rowan used to say it. But Megan said it differently. More deliberately.
He couldn't bring himself to respond. Just exhaled.
Her hands lingered longer than they should have, then slid away. She collected his plate without asking, her hand brushing the back of his neck as she passed.
An accident.
Or not.
Neither of them spoke about the tension, the slow shift. But it grew--like ivy on the edge of the house. Silent, patient, inevitable.
He started to look forward to the lists. The routines. The way she told him what to do in a tone he never questioned. She started leaving out his laundry, folded just so. Organized his tools. Rearranged his drawers--gently correcting the disorder he hadn't even realized he left behind.
One morning he found the kitchen spotless, with a single note by the coffee pot in her neat, looping script.
The tools go in the second drawer. Where they belong. --M
It shouldn't have made his stomach tighten the way it did.
He drank the coffee, perfectly brewed, and rearranged the drawers just like she wanted.
Megan was sitting on the couch, reading with her legs tucked up beneath her. Ryan had just finished cleaning the last of the garden tools--she insisted they be spotless before going back into the shed--and now the ache in his arms was starting to settle into his shoulders.
She looked up when he entered the room, watching the way he rubbed the back of his neck.
"You're stiff," she said, setting her book aside. "You shouldn't let it get that bad. Come here."
He hesitated, then moved to sit on the floor in front of her without needing to be asked twice. Her fingers were cool at first, but then warm as she began kneading into his shoulders. She wasn't delicate--she had firm hands, precise, confident. He groaned under her touch.
"You really do work hard," she murmured, thumb working a tight knot. "I should be paying you."
"I'll accept payment in neck massages," he joked.
She chuckled softly. "Even trade? Not likely."
But she didn't pull away.
He turned around after a while and said, "You want one? Return the favor."
Megan gave him a skeptical, amused look, but lifted her hair and turned, offering her neck. "Careful. If you're any good, I might not let you stop."
He didn't say anything--just started slowly. His thumbs pressed into the sides of her neck, her shoulders, down to her upper back. She made a small sound in her throat that made his fingers pause--then continue, slower.
"Not bad," she said after a moment. Then she extended one bare foot toward him, wiggling her toes playfully. "But you're not done."
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, I see. Full-service spa treatment?"
Megan leaned back, eyes half-lidded. "You're hired full-time, remember?"
He laughed, but his heart beat faster as he took her foot gently in his hands. Her skin was soft. Her heel slightly rough, the way anyone's would be who walked barefoot through a garden. He ran his thumbs along her arch, slow and deliberate.
Megan sighed.
It was not sexual. Not overtly. But it was something. She didn't give instructions this time, didn't comment--just closed her eyes and let him touch her. Let him serve her. And the act, though innocent on its surface, felt charged. Deeply familiar.
He used to do this for Rowan. After scenes. After long weekends. When she had kept him restrained and obedient and blissful for hours, then let him kneel beside her and show his devotion in quieter ways.
And now he was doing it for her mother.
Megan didn't open her eyes, but her voice came out in a low, knowing murmur. "You know, that old massage table's still in the hall closet, isn't it?"
His hands stilled for a second, then resumed.
"Yeah. We haven't used it since... well."
A pause.
She turned her head slightly, still not looking at him. "You should bring it out sometime. Give me the full treatment. Maybe put it in the guest room. I've been meaning to turn that into more of a retreat space anyway."
His throat was dry. "Sure," he said softly. "I can do that."
She smiled. "Good boy."
He didn't respond.
Couldn't.
But he stayed kneeling at her feet long after the massage ended, just pressing gently into the soles of her feet as the room darkened around them.
She went out the next morning--shopping, she said. Probably for groceries. But Ryan used the time. He pulled the massage table from the closet. Dusted it. Unfolded it in the guest room where the sunlight was warm and golden. The soft leather was still supple, the corners still subtly reinforced. The discrete D-rings were tucked beneath the frame, out of sight unless one knew where to look.
He stood over it for a long time, just remembering. His breath hitched at the memories--of being bound, of giving everything, of Rowan's soft commands and firm hands.
He left it there.
No sheet. No explanation.
Just the suggestion.
When Megan returned, she said nothing at first. She passed the guest room doorway on her way down the hall. Then paused.
He saw her hand drift to the doorframe. Saw the way her eyes settled on the table. The corner of her mouth tugged upward--just barely.
She didn't comment.
Just kept walking.
