I know Alex’s expression—hard, closed—as he stubbed out his cigarette with trembling fingers. I know the pain in my wrists from pulling on the cuffs and the slick wetness between my legs. If I tried, I think I could write pages about one single breath. Lose myself in the touch of Jack’s fingertips stroking down my spine. In the sheer relief of having him back with us. Of having him understand me without me needing to speak. He knew all my secrets. Yet I’ve failed. In a way, I have to fail. Because I can’t capture every minute. I can’t remember every conversation. I can’t relive each second in real time. Jack didn’t strike me forty times in anger. Each blow didn’t carry the same weight, the same substance. No, he was a true master. He teased me. He struck quickly, and wickedly, so that I shook with the power behind the pain. And then he hit soft, undoing me, showing me with the very arch of my back, with the subtle shift of my hips, exactly what I really craved.
