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[guinegreer]

[ The truth is that Greer has been lingering just outside the room for more than a minute — and she has the keen sense, even now, that Ash had known she was eavesdropping and purposefully woven her name into the conversation in an effort to flush her out of hiding. Before she'd approached the open door, she'd heard the low, thoughtful tones of his voice, the same one he uses when she's already on her knees, and instinctively understood what she would be met with, despite the identity of the other person — the other woman — being a mystery at first until she catches the softest note of a whimper, a louder version of the sound she'd earned from Gwen's lips herself in that shared chalet bed.

Her fingers, suddenly slippery and clammy, squeak over the spine of the book she's gripping onto, and then she's there, hovering in the doorway, absorbing the scene before her: Ash perched on the edge of a chair, one shoe-clad foot assertively planted on the floor between the shameless splay of Gwen's knees, the spill of long, blonde hair across the carpet, white panties carelessly shoved down and straining at the elastic. She can't see everything from this angle, but she can see enough, between the plug inelegantly perched between Gwen's drooling lips and Ash's hand idly working in a slow, steady rhythm that Greer intimately recognizes from previous experience as the stretching kind.

My wife, Ash acknowledges her — and she is his, isn't she, wholly and completely, regardless of what she's inadvertently stumbled upon? Though now, Greer can't help but wonder if Ash planned the timing of this perfectly, always intended for her to discover them together, wanted her to be involved in some capacity. The collar creating a subtle ridge beneath the neckline of her sweater screams as much.

So Greer does as she's been ordered to, closing the door with a soft snick behind her but not locking it, and crosses the room until she's close enough to Ash to drop into a kneeling position at his feet, barely acknowledging Gwen because she hasn't been directed to spare her attention elsewhere yet. Her book is still in her grasp, even, and she brings it flat over her thighs, clasps her hands over the cover. The instinct to lean forward, to nuzzle her cheek against Ash's thigh, is so strong she nearly breaks the rules for it, but instead she lowers her chin, directs her gaze to the floor, and waits for his next order. Her safeword is there, can be reached for at any time, but her silence speaks louder in the moment itself. ]