My thoughts blur into sensation: the rough denim of his jeans against my bare thigh, his teeth on my earlobe, the relentless pressure between my legs.
“Please, Gregory, please...” I’m begging now, but it’s just noise--
My hips buck, out of control.
I’m so close.
The white-hot tension coils low in my belly, ready to snap.
He feels it, too, and his breath hitches.
“Look at me.”
I force my eyes open. His stare is fire.
But just as my back arches, trembling on the edge--
He tears his hand away.
Silence.
Empty.
A cruel, hollow ache.
I collapse against the floor, gasping, shaking.
Unfinished.
Ruined.
Gregory steps back, wiping his palm on his jeans. His eyes are dark blue pools of want.
“Good girl,” he rasps. “Now strip for me. Slowly.”
I haven’t even recovered, I just stare at him blankly for several seconds, my pussy cruelly throbbing with need.
The words finally register.
Strip.
Slowly.
Oh of courseslowly.
With Gregory, it always has to be a whole production.
He takes a comfortable seat on the floor in front of me.
“Strip,” he repeats.
Oh God.
But I do as he asks.
I stand, pull off his hoodie first, the one I’ve been living in. Then my thermal layer. The bra. By the time I’m standing there topless, my hands are shaking.
“All of it,” he commands.
