“Say it.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I guess we’re done.” He pulls away, and I swear I’m going to die.
“Wait—” The word tears out of me desperately. “Please. Touch my... touch me there. Please.”
“Where, Saint? I need to hear you say it.”
“My clit,” I whisper, shame flooding my face with more heat. “Please touch my clit.”
“Good girl.” His thumb finds the bundle of nerves, circling it with just enough pressure to make me gasp. “See how easy that was?”
He works me slowly, methodically, building sensation until I’m writhing against the mattress. When I think I can’t take any more, when pleasure is coiling tight in my belly, ready to snap, he stops.
I make a sound that’s almost a sob.
“Not yet,” he says. “You don’t get to come yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because this is a punishment. You ran from me. Put yourself in danger. Nearly died.” His fingers return, building me up again. “So you’re going to learn a lesson in control. Who is in control.”
He brings me to the edge three more times. Each time, just when I’m about to tip over, he stops. By the fourth time, I’m sobbing. Frustration and need rip through me in an almost painful way.
“Calder, please,” I beg, past caring about pride or shame. “Please let me come. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I ran. I won’t do it again. Just please?—”
“Open your eyes,” he commands. “Look at me.”
I do. His eyes are shadows under ice, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched tight. He looks as wrecked as I feel.
“Tell me you’re mine,” he says roughly.
“I-I can’t?—”
“Tell me, or you don’t get to finish.”
The tears come harder now. Because saying it makes it real. Makes it true. Makes it something I can’t take back.
“I’m yours,” I whisper.
“Again. Louder.”
“I’m yours.” The words tear out of me, in a half sob, half surrender.
“That’s right.” His thumb presses harder and circles faster. Using his other hand, he slides lower, pushing two fingers inside me. “You’re mine, Saint. Mine to protect. Mine to punish. Mine to pleasure.”
The dual sensation is overwhelming, and within seconds, I’m shattering, my back arching off the bed. A cry tears from my throat that echoes in the small room. The orgasm rolls through me in waves, each one more intense than the last. Calder doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, just works me through it until I’m boneless and gasping, until the pleasure borders on pain, and I’m begging him to stop. When he finally withdraws his hand, I’m trembling all over. Tears streak my temples. My body feels foreign—too sensitive, too aware.
Calder leans over me, one hand braced beside my head. His other hand comes up, thumb brushing away my tears with surprising gentleness.
“You can be a good girl when you want to be,” he murmurs. “Took your punishment like you were supposed to. And hopefully I made my point.”
I can’t speak. Can barely breathe. I just lie there staring up at him while my body remembers how to function. He helps me sit up slowly, hands steadying me when I sway. For a moment, we just look at each other. His breathing is ragged, his jaw still clenched, and I realize with a start that he’s hard. I can see the evidence straining against his jeans.
“You didn’t—” I start.
He grabs his belt buckle, slides it open, then pulls out his straining erection. I gulp as I stare at it, unsure what to do, even as my body lights up all over again. I’ve never seen anything so long or thick before.
