God help me, I want it.
His voice cuts through me again, sharp and low and filthy in the darkness of this room that smells of sex and expensive furniture polish.
“Say thank you.”
I should spit at him, should gather what saliva I have left and aim for that smirking mouth.
I should stay silent, should cling to the last shred of dignity that hasn’t been stripped away along with my knickers.
I should keep the final piece of myself that he hasn’t claimed yet.
But it’s already gone, isn’t it? It vanished the moment I let my hand slip between my thighs knowing he might be watching, might be recording, might be cataloguing every moment of weakness for later use.
So I say it, the words scraping past my throat like broken glass.
Whisper it, actually—hoarse, ashamed, wrecked beyond recognition.
“Thank you.”
His smile is slow and predator-slick, spreading across his face like oil on water and he leans back in like he’s about to give me more, like he’s going to reward my compliance with the release I’m desperate for.
But then—he stops, body going still in a way that’s more unsettling than any movement could be.
Doesn’t move forward.
Doesn’t speak.
Just waits in the charged silence, watches me with those cold eyes that miss nothing.
And that’s worse than anything, worse than the denial, worse than the teasing, because I know what this is now.
It’s the game, the sick, twisted one where he gets off on watching me fall apart piece by piece—just to see if I’ll break his rules all over again, if I’ll prove that I’m exactly as weak and desperate as he’s always known I am.
My hips twitch involuntarily, seeking friction that isn’t there.
My thighs clench around nothing.
My skin burns with unfulfilled need that seems to radiate from my core outward until every inch of me feels too hot, too sensitive, too aware.
He’s still kneeling there at the edge of the bed, still watching with that infuriating patience, still hard beneath the fabric of those black slacks—a brutal outline pulsing between his thighs that draws my gaze like a magnet.
And I can’t stop looking at it, can’t stop thinking about it, can’t stop imagining how he’d taste, how he’d sound if I wrapped my mouth around him, how he’d snap the second I?—
No.
He said no touching.
I move anyway, before I can talk myself down, before I can stop myself, before I can remember who I’m supposed to be—the defiant captive, the girl with pride intact, the one who doesn’t break.
My hand reaches for him, shaky and greedy and blind with lust that overrides every screaming warning in my brain, and lands against the front of his slacks where the heat of him burns through expensive fabric.
His breath catches, sharp and sudden in the quiet room.
His eyes darken, pupils swallowing the ice-blue until there’s nothing left but hunger.
Not with surprise—he’s not surprised.
Not with anger—not yet.
