I curl my fingers just right, dragging them along that aching, swollen spot she swore no man would ever own again, and her spine arches so beautifully I almost give in and let her cum right here but I don’t, because she hasn’t earned it.
Not until she begs properly.
Not until she bleeds for it.
Not until her rage collapses into ruin.
“Fuck you,” she spits, hand slamming into my chest, “I hate you?—”
“You’ll hate me more in ten seconds,” I promise.
I press harder, fingers working faster.
My palm grinds against her clit with vicious precision, fucking her with my fingers like they were made for nothing else—like her body was carved around the shape of my hand.
She whimpers now, the sound high and desperate.
Then growls low in her throat.
Then moans again, higher this time, hips rocking involuntarily, thighs twitching, breath ragged and uneven.
“I said—” she chokes, eyes glassy, lips parted, voice crumbling, “I’m not—don’t make me?—”
“Cum?” I sneer, watching her closely. “No. Not yet.”
Her eyes go wide with realisation.
Panicked and desperate.
Her body clenches around me, seconds from falling over the edge into oblivion—And I pull out completely.
She screams, but not loud.
Not dramatically.
Just that broken, ruined, wrecked little sob girls make when they realise I mean it, when they understand I’m not bluffing.
Her legs tremble uncontrollably.
Her thighs are soaked, denim dark with it and I don’t give her a second to recover, don’t allow her time to rebuild her defences.
I grab her jaw and make her look at me, fingers digging in.
Make her see exactly who she’s dealing with.
“Beg,” I growl. “If you want it.”
She shakes her head, still clinging to pride.
Tears at my wrist again with weakening strength.
“You want me to fuck you like a monster?” I whisper, bringing my face close to hers. “Then stop acting like you’re still human.”
I slide my fingers back inside—just a tease, just enough to make her moan.
She moans.
I stop.
