I watch them carefully as they talk, eying the distance between them with a superficial calm. Blair doesn't move forward when she lowers her voice coquettishly to lure him in, but he doesn't step back, either. I can't blame him for that; with Sam, giving ground or showing a weakness is like painting a 'kick me' target on your ass.

I'm listening. Can't help it. Don't try. She's doing her best to persuade him to ask her out again. To grovel, to beg.

Blair begs nicely, with a fervent sincerity that somehow masks, not reveals his love of submission, but groveling? Not his style -- and when it comes to dates, his dance card is full.

Sam's about to give up, thin lips set in a disappointed line, when Blair smiles at her. Idiot. He's relieved that she's going, but she reads it all wrong and puts her hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. I see his pupils dilate, see the furtive lick of his lips as he looks around for me.

Right here, sweetheart.

It's time to go home. I'm at my limit. His arm, his ass (yeah, Henri, I know you were just being friendly with that swat in passing. I just don't care), his thigh, rubbing up against Rhonda's as they studied her computer screen -- too many places on him have been touched today. I told him that he had to be careful, made it an order, and he was, but not quite careful enough.

Time to claim him back. I'll wash him first. Take care of the genial tousle his hair got as Simon walked by. Cutting off the strands that still smell like Simon's fingers (fingers still sticky from a buttermilk donut when they ran through Blair's hair) wouldn't work; people would notice and I'd hate the feel of the snipped off ends amongst the luxuriance of the rest.

Warm water getting hotter, until his skin flushes and he's yelping and flinching away from the spray; that works. I hold him in place, patient with his recalcitrance, until he stops struggling and lets me soap his scarlet skin, my hands all over him, rubbing the froth and bubble into every pore, every crevice, every -- everywhere.

Because Blair's touched himself, too. I can always tell. His ass clenches around my finger, suppliantly, sweetly and I take the time to smile at him as the water rains down, and fuck him with three fingers, working the soap deep. It stings and burns him (shouldn't have asked me to do you harder, faster, the night before last, Blair. That's one request I'll always grant) and he dances for me, jiggling from foot to foot, a pained hiss emerging from lips he's bitten raw. I press my hand down on his shoulder, helping him to keep my fingers deep, where they should be.

I try to help him be good for me. I do. If I want to punish him, and sometimes I need to, there's always something I can use as a reason and if there isn't, if he's been good, so good, I'll tell him to give me something and watch him get inventive.

I draw him out of the shower and rub him dry, the water beading on my bare skin ignored. We'll be using Blair's bed for the next part and I don't care if it gets wet; he never sleeps in it, anyway.

He kneels in front of the small stool in the bathroom and bows his head, water gathering and dripping off the dark hair. I taste a drop, catching it on my finger. Water, my own shampoo, Blair. Perfect.

Pleased, I draw the comb through the tangles briskly, ignoring his winces. I can spend an hour combing it when I'm happy with him, but this is grooming, nothing more.

I'm getting hard thinking of what's to come. When I glance over Blair's shoulder, I see I'm not alone, but Blair's not going to be allowed to enjoy this yet. Pleasure is earned. I don't bother with a cock ring. In the past, when all this was new, sure, but now I just hook my leg around him, press my heel into his balls, and grind down gently until he gets the message. I stop short of hurting him, but I can feel the discomfort roll through him in waves and I pause to tilt his head, wet hair clinging to his cheek, and kiss that rebellious, sulky mouth until it opens for me.

"I did try," he tells me, the first words he's spoken since we came home.

"I know." We both know intentions don't count; results do. I might make him write that out for me. That sometimes grounds him, seeing it in black and white. His script. The one I follow to the letter.

"Where?"

He knows where. I lead him to his room, lay him down on the bed, and I fasten my mouth on his arm, where Sam's fingers staked a claim.

She had no right to touch him.

I worry and suck at his flesh, taste the heat and smell the blood under the surface. I feel it rise in quick, hot throbs, but I won't break the skin. Tonight I just need to mark it. My teeth dig in and my tongue -- God, I'm lapping frantically over that slippery wet patch of flesh, powerfully aroused by the grunts he's making, soft, anguished, frantic.

He's hard again, defiantly erect, and as I spill, spunk coating his clean skin, I feel his body jerk and twist, his solid, leaking cock using my thigh to trigger his climax.

He rolls me to my back and takes my mouth in a kiss. The mark on his arm is already blooming darkly. Beautiful. "I came."

"I noticed."

"Love you..." he mutters, blindly nuzzling into my neck. "You were perfect, so good... God, the look on your face when you saw me with Sam. Freaked me out, man."

Blair still thinks we're playing, and he wrote the rules to this fucked-up sex game he loves, so I can't see why he was freaked out.

Makes me wonder how he'll react when I break it to him that playtime's over and we're doing this for real. The thought of how good he'll be, how perfect, sizzles through me and I push him off me, arrange him ass up, ignoring his half-hearted protest.

Let's see, Henri's hand smacked him just here --


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