Just like that, he steps back, leaving me panting and empty again.
"Please," I whimper, hating that I'm desperate enough to beg even while I do it.
"No. I don't think you've earned the right to come yet," he says, his voice cold. "You'll stay just like that today."
He's gone before I can turn around, his laughter trailing behind him.
"I fucking hate you," I snarl, but I'm talking to myself.
Thursday morning, I wake up furious after dreaming about him all goddamn night. Even in my dreams, he wouldn't let me come.
I dress in my shortest skirt and my highest heels and then paint my lips the color of blood. I walk into his office like I own it, refusing to look at him, refusing to play his games.
I don't make a sound when he puts the plug in. I don't look at him, don't speak to him, nothing. I just let him do it and act like he isn't bothering me at all.
My resolve lasts until lunchtime.
He corners me in the hallway, trapping me between his body and the wall.
"You're ignoring me," he says, his eyes lethal.
I try to duck away, but he blocks me with a hand on my shoulder.
"Get out of my way," I snap.
He leans in, pinning me with his stare. "You look so fucking beautiful when you're angry, princess. All I've thought about all morning is fucking you until you scream."
I laugh in his face. "You wouldn't last two minutes."
He grins, an unholy, unhinged twist of his lips. "Try me."
His hand slips between my thighs, right there in the hallway, and I nearly collapse from the shock. I'm so wet, it's humiliating. I bite my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a moan.
He strokes me through my panties, gentle at first, then rougher. My breath comes in quick, shallow bursts. I feel the orgasm building, so close I can taste it.
Yet again, he stops, leaving me desperate and aching.
"I'm going to kill you," I say. I mean it. I think.
"See you at the staff meeting," he replies with an arrogant smirk, walking away.
I just stand there for a long time, shaking, trying to convince myself that I hate him and his goddamn game.
I don't succeed.
By Thursday night, I'm a mess. My skin is flushed, my chest is tight, and there's a constant, aching throb between my legs that won't go away. Worse, I still can't get myself off. Every time I try, I remember his promise that he'll know if I do, and part of my brain is absolutely convinced he will.
I know he's done this on purpose. He wants to break me.
But I'm not broken. Not yet.
If anything, I'm more alive than I've ever been.
I crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling, my hand between my thighs, and imagine what it would feel like if he were the one bringing me over the edge again.
But even with visions of him playing behind my eyes, even with the memory of his hand between my legs, I still can't get myself there. No matter how hard I try, it just doesn't work.
The bastard is ruining me.
