But he doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t let me drift off into that satisfied haze. Doesn’t even let me breathe it in.
Rough hands flip me again, fast—like I’m nothing but weight he owns, flesh he earned.
His body cages mine. Eyes sharp. Still hard.
Still ready.
“Thought that was the end?” His voice is low, ragged. “Nah, sweetheart. We’re not done.”
He settles between my thighs again, cock brushing my slick folds—not pushing in.
Teasing.
Threatening.
I moan, hips arching.
He doesn’t give me what I need.
Instead, his hand slides low. One thick finger circling my clit with maddening precision. Just enough pressure to light the fuse.
“You’re gonna tell me, Eliza.”
His mouth is at my throat. Tongue tasting sweat, sex and, shame.
“Tell you what?” I pant, even though I know.
I know.
“You know what,” he murmurs. “That look you gave me—when I said I’d shut you up with my cock. Your eyes blew wide and your cunt went soaking wet.”
He strokes me again. A slick, deliberate circle that makes my breath catch.
“You’ve fantasized about it,” he growls, biting down just below my ear. “Haven’t you?”
I stay silent.
He slides lower. One finger. Two. Deep.
A thrust that makes my back arch and my legs shake. Then he pulls out. Stops.
No rhythm. No friction. Just the unbearable edge of it.
“You did, didn’t you?” he murmurs, dragging his tongue down my jaw. “All that brainpower. All that goddamn education. And your biggest fantasy is getting fucked like a mouthy little whore.”
“Cooper—”
He thrusts again, deeper this time. Then stops.
I choke on a sound. My hips rock up, seeking more, desperate.
He denies me again.
“This is how this works,” he says, voice like gravel and sin. “You tell me the truth, or I don’t let you come.”
Another thrust. Slow. Cruel.
