I keep my mouth shut anyway.
The ceiling swims above me, the pendant lights too bright and exposing. The vulnerable position results in goosebumps dotting my skin. The table is unyielding against my back, the wood uncomfortable despite its smooth finish.
I wonder if ash would be noticeably softer.
Alexei banishes that ridiculous thought when he braces one hand beside my head. The dark shadow of his body blocks the light. His eyes roam my face, my neck, and my chest with meticulous attention, as if memorizing each detail and cataloguing every reaction.
He bends lower and brushes his lips over my ear. “This isnotsex.”
Anticipation shivers down my spine.
He rocks his hips forward until the denim of his jeans presses against the thin material of my sweatpants. All my clean underwear is drying in my room, so I’m commando at the moment, and the contact jolts me to my core. That means every seam, every ridge, transfers through the flimsy barrier. And when he grinds his erection against my center, I feel every single inch.
“This is a reminder of who’s in charge.” Another roll of his hips, more deliberate this time, provides pressure exactly where I crave it.
More heat rushes south. The whine that escapes my throat when he removes that pressure would embarrass me if I weren’t so desperate for more.
“Lift your knees.” His roughened register almost short-circuits my brain.
Still, I hesitate, clinging to this last shred of resistance. If I comply, I’m an active participant. I can no longer pretend this is being done to me. I’d have to admit that I’m doing this of my own choosing.
Cursing my own weakness, I flatten my feet on the edge and bend my knees. The position leaves me open, and shame crawls up my neck.
A satisfied smile graces his lips. Like I’ve confirmed a fact he already knows about me, about us, about the dynamic forming between captor and captive. “Good girl.”
The praise slips under my skin, warming me from the inside out. I hate that it affects me. Hate how my body responds to his approval. How my hips rise to meet his touch, seeking more.
When his free hand snakes between our bodies and finds the waistband of the sweatpants, I tense. We agreed on no sex, and I’m holding him to that promise even if it kills me.
Before I can protest, I notice his fingers don’t dip beneath the material. Instead, they press through the fabric, locating exactly the right spot with unerring accuracy.
My back arches off the table at the sudden jolt of pleasure. My strangled cry rings the room as two fingers slide over my sensitive flesh, working in concert with the grinding of his hips.
Pressure without penetration.
Caresses without direct skin contact.
Somewhere amid the haze of growing bliss, I realize the man is an evil genius.
He rubs and teases, adjusting based on my body’s subtle cues.
If he can work me this much now, I fear I wouldn’t survive sex.
His hips and fingers move in tandem, establishing a slow rhythm before gradually quickening the pace. He notes every reaction, every flicker of bliss that crosses my face.
My breath releases in quick pants. Small, desperate sounds accompany each exhale. I grip the edge of the table and cling for dear life. My toes curl against the hard surface as pressure coils within me like a gathering storm.
Through the haze of overwhelming sensations, I catch him studying me with clinical, focused detachment. Not like a man lost to passion, but like a scientist observing an experiment.
Testing boundaries.
Collecting data.
This isn’t a seduction but a demonstration of control. He’s proving he can have me whenever he wants, despite the rules I put in place. A lesson in our new dynamic.
Being this vulnerable, this exposed, should horrify me.
Instead, that knowledge pushes me closer to the ledge.
