He sat in his car for thirty-seven minutes before starting the engine. The leather seat was cool against his back. His shirt stuck in places he didn't remember sweating. The collar mark still lingered on his neck.
He didn't need a mirror to find it. He reached up and touched it. Once. Then again.
The phantom pressure of her fingers still hummed beneath the skin. The curve of the collar. The sound it made when it buckled into place. The way she looked at him right after--like she'd claimed what was already hers.
He touched the spot again. Slower this time. And he came.
Without permission.
Without friction.
Just the memory of her voice. The ache in his spine. The taste of her still ghosting his lips.
His head hit the steering wheel. He stayed there.
Still hard.
Still hers.
The knock is soft. Barely a whisper against the hotel room door. He knows better than to enter without permission today.
I take my time crossing the room, letting him wait just long enough to question himself.
When I open the door, he doesn't look at me. He's standing exactly where he should be: eyes low, arms loose at his sides, breathing tight like he hasn't fully come down since I last dismissed him.
He doesn't speak. Instead, he holds out a folded piece of paper. Slightly damp at the edge where his fingers wouldn't let go.
"Mistress," he says, voice strained. "I came without your permission."
I take it without responding. I don't read it immediately. I just let the silence wrap around us like consequence. Then I turn and walk back inside, leaving the door open behind me. I hear it click shut once he follows, wordless.
He kneels.
I sit in the same chair by the window, robe drawn close, collar resting beside me on the table like a loaded weapon. Only then do I unfold the paper.
Mistress,
I didn't mean to.
I sat in my car for thirty-seven minutes.
I thought I was holding it together.
I wasn't.
