He rewards good manners. Two fingers trace the edge of my panties and slip beneath. He finds me already wet and groans like I did that to him, like my body made his need. He rubs me in small circles until my thighs shake and my breath turns ragged. Then he stops.
I glare at him, and he laughs. “Greedy.”
“You brought me here to ruin me, and you’re stalling.”
“Edging you is not stalling.” He strokes again, slower, firmer, until I climb toward that first glittering edge. “It’s conservation.”
I hate that I love his words. I love that I hate this part and beg for it, anyway. He plays me like a song he knows by heart. He pulls me up to the brink and lets me see it, bright and blinding, then eases me back down with a thumb pressed steady and sweet. Again and again. My eyes flood with frustrated tears that don’t fall. I shake my head and bite my lip as he kisses the mark he left earlier on my throat.
“Use your words.”
“I want to come.”
“How?”
“Your fingers. Your mouth. I don’t care. Please.”
He drags the lace down my thighs, slow enough to make me tremble, and tosses it aside. Then he slides two fingers inside me, slow at first, then deeper, and curls them against my G-Spot repeatedly like he’s typing in Morse code. His mouth takes my nipple through the sheer fabric and bites, not cruel, just enough. The knot at my wrists tugs, and my back arches. I am going to fall, and he knows it.
He pulls away.
“Silas.” It is almost a sob.
He studies me like art. “You like the ache.”
“I like the relief afterwards.”
“Then you’ll love what I do next.”
He strips down to his open shirt and nothing else. The sight of him is a blow. Broad chest, a cut line of muscle leading down, a body that looks like it works as hard as it plays. He climbs onto the bed, straddles my thighs, and drags the head of his cock along the slick of me without pushing in.
“Fuck!” I try to lift my hips, but he holds me down with one palm on my stomach.
“Eyes,” he says. “On me.”
I keep my eyes on him and feel how close he is to sliding in. The denial is torture. He strokes himself with my wetness, slow, deliberate, and the sounds he makes batter my restraint. He edges me again with his fingers while he uses me to bring himself to the edge, and the sight of his control unravels mine.
“Now,” I plead. “Please, let me.”
The next stroke of his fingers, pushes me over. It’s sharp and messy, heat spreading through me in waves I can’t contain. I shake, whispering his name until it breaks apart on my tongue.
He curses, a beautiful, helpless sound, and pulls his hand away to grip himself harder. He doesn’t push inside; instead, he paints me with his pleasure. Heat hits my skin in pulses, and he groans through his teeth, eyes locked on mine, as he comes all over my tits.
We breathe together. The room smells like sweat and sex and something sugar-sweet from the towels warming on the tray. He releases my wrists, and I bring my shaky hands around slowly; the silk falling away.
“Good girl,” he says again, voice rough. He reaches for a towel and cleans me with a care that makes my throat close.Warm cloth, gentle touches, a kiss at the corner of my mouth that lands like a thank you.
He tips my chin up. “Your number.”
I lick my lips and pretend to think about it even though I already have. “I’m seeing someone.”
“You’re too much for one someone.” It’s not jealousy. It’s certainty. His eyes are almost soft. “You’re not a one-man woman. You’re a storm who needs to be chased.”
I laugh. “That’s not the saying.”
“It is now.” He hands me his phone, the contact open. “I’ll not take what you don’t offer. But when you want to be doted on and cared for, you’ll call.”
I type my name, my number, and add a single black heart. He glances at the screen and looks satisfied in a way that makes heat curl back up my spine.
