“Let go of me,” I pant breathlessly, straining gently against his grip, both resenting and relishing the delicious helplessness he's forced upon me. There isn’t even an ounce of believable demand in my voice. I want his hands on my body. I'm intoxicated by the taste of his lips on mine.
Gone is my need to flee, replaced only with the desire to rip my dress off and push my naked skin against his. I should be embarrassed by my sudden submission, but instead, all I find is comfort in it. I should fight harder, stick up for myself a bit longer, but rather than fight to be free, I submit to the behavior I know. What I was bred for.
His free hand slides slowly along my thigh, pushing beneath the hem of my dress that’s ridden up to the tops of my thighs, teasing higher with deliberate cruelty. My breath stutters, anticipation coiling tightly in my core, as I instinctively press closer, silently pleading for more.
He pauses just short of satisfaction, his gaze locking onto mine, dark eyes glittering with dangerous triumph. “Admit it," he commands huskily. "You crave this, crave losing yourself to me."
My mind is battling the raw desire of my body. “Fuck. You.”
A low chuckle vibrates through his chest as he tightens his grip, fingertips bruising lightly against my wrists. I can no longer breathe. I'm so turned on. “You’re not ready yet, darling.”
His lips crash back into mine, swallowing any protests as pleasure blurs into pain, resistance melts into yearning, and the fierce heat of his kiss claims my surrender, one scorching inch at a time.
His fingers trail higher, a teasing whisper of calloused fingertips against fevered skin, until they find the damp lace barely covering me. He groans low, the sound vibrating against my lips, as he hooks his fingers into the soaked fabric.
“Dripping for me,” he mutters darkly, his breath hot against my jaw. “And you still want to pretend you’re not mine?”
My gasp is half a whimper, half a challenge, my body betraying me as I arch into him. The pressure of his grip on my wrists is a reminder—I’m pinned at his mercy, and I hate how much I love it.
“Say it,” he demands, a slow, torturous drag of fingers pressing where I need him most, not nearly enough but just enough to make me tremble. “Say you want this.”
I bite my lip, refusing to give in so easily, even as my resolve crumbles with every calculated stroke.
His free hand tightens in warning around my throat, a dark promise laced in his touch. “Martine,” he growls, voice thick with control and something dangerously close to obsession. “Say it.”
And God help me, I want to say it. But I refuse to break.
”I’ll never say it, I know you’ll take it anyway.” I gasp.
“Smart woman.” A smug chuckle vibrates against my throat as he takes his time, reveling in the way my body trembles beneath him. He hooks his fingers into my panties again and slides them down my trembling legs, his fingers hot against my goose-pimpled skin.
The bastard tucks them into his suit pocket and then gently brushes his knuckles against my dripping pussy. The ghost of his touch acts as such an intense contrast to his violent ways.
“So much for that sharp tongue,” he muses, dragging his lips along the shell of my ear. “Where’d all that fight go, darling?”
I whimper, barely able to breathe, let alone speak. My body is betraying me, hips tilting instinctively into his touch, craving more, needing more. Demanding it, but still, his fingers are a ghost.
His grip returns to my throat and tightens, holding me in place and reminding me that I’m in his control, my arms still pinned about my head with his other hand.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, hand leaving my throat, and going back down to my needy, wet heat. His fingers are skimming just short of where I need them. “Tell me how badly you want me to touch you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, my pride whispering at me to hold out, but the need burning through me is too strong. My breath hitches, and when I finally speak, my voice is barely a whisper from how tightly his hand is squeezing my neck.
“Please.” I whimper, sucking my bottom lip into my mouth. His satisfied hum sends a shiver down my spine.
“That’s better,” he praises, his fingers finally slipping into me, sliding through my arousal with slow, deliberate strokes.
I moan, arching into his touch, but his grip holds me still.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice like velvet and sin. “Now let’s see how sweet you can be when you really beg.”
His fingers continue their slow torment, pressing, teasing, never giving me enough. They slip through my aching pussy delicately, just missing where I desperately need them the most. My body is on fire, nerves frayed, and my mind slipping further into submission with every cruel stroke. He knows it, feels it in the way I melt beneath him, in the soft, desperate sounds escaping my lips.
Then he stops.
I whimper at the loss, my body instinctively chasing his touch, but his grip tightens, keeping me in place. His dark, knowing gaze pins me, hunger and authority simmering behind his smirk.
“Open your mouth,” he orders, his voice thick with amusement.
