“You hold out on me, I keep edging you till you’re crying.”
His fingers slide out. I make a noise—frustration,pain, heat.
“Fuck, you’re dripping for it,” he murmurs, sliding his thumb over my clit. “So greedy. But you don’t get shit until you confess.”
“Confess, what?” I whisper, already shaking.
His laugh is dark. Rough. “You know what.”
He moves back, positioning himself at my entrance. Not entering. Just resting there.
The pressure is maddening.
“I’m gonna fuck you slow,” he says, voice sharp with control. “Real slow. And I’m gonna stop every single time you get close. Until you break.”
He pushes in. Agonizingly slow.
One inch.
Two.
Three.
I cry out, nails digging into the sheets.
Then he pulls out completely.
“Tell me,” he grits.
I shake my head. I can’t. It’s too much. Too real.
He sinks in again, faster this time. And pulls out again.
The sound I make isn’t human.
My body begs.
My mouth stays shut.
He leans in, breath hot on my lips. “I want to hear it, Eliza. The fantasy. The one you never told anyone. What did you imagine?”
His thumb circles my clit again. Just enough.
“Getting face-fucked by some brute? No mercy, no softness, just his cock down your throat because you talked too much?”
I sob.
But I don’t answer.
He stills, buried just barely inside me. His breath brushes my ear.
“I’m right, aren’t I. You and your filthy fantasies? Youfantasized about being a whore?” he says—testing. “Getting used like one?”
I go quiet.
Too quiet.
He catches it.
