He grabs my chin with bruising fingers, forces me back to face him.
His mouth hovers over mine, close enough that I can taste the whisky he must have drunk before coming here, but he doesn’t kiss me—he never kisses me, as if that would be too intimate, too human.
Not with lips.
Only with words that cut deeper than any blade.
“You think you’re in control because you reached for my cock?” he asks, voice dripping with mockery. “Because you got one stroke in before I made you regret it?”
He laughs, low and lethal and utterly devoid of humour.
“You haven’t even tasted regret yet, Tinkerbell. But you will.”
Then his mouth is on my throat—not kissing, not biting, just pressing hot and open-mouthed against the pulse point that betrays how fast my heart is racing. His breath brands me, his weight pins me down whilst his hips grind slow, relentless pressure against the aching, swollen mess he’s made between my legs.
“You want to cum, little fairy?” he asks against my skin.
I whimper, the sound pathetic even to my own ears.
He laughs again, darker this time.
“You want to break for me?”
His hips roll forward with cruel precision, a deliberate grind that makes my clit twitch, makes my spine bow off the mattress, makes my body scream yes even when my mouth stays stubbornly shut.
I know he wants to hear it—the words, the begging, the complete and utter surrender of everything I am.
I won’t give it, can’t give it, refuse to give it even as my body riots against the decision.
I can’t.
“You’re so fucking tight I can feel you clenching through my trousers,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of my ear like a sin I’ll never be clean from, like something that will stain my soul long after this night ends. “You want me to fuck you stupid right here, right now, until all that fire burns out and the only thing left is need and submission and the knowledge that you belong to me.”
He pushes again, hips rolling with practised ease against exactly the right spot.
I gasp, the sound punched from my lungs.
He growls, low and satisfied.
“Bet your little cunt’s fluttering already, so eager, so disobedient, so desperate for something you haven’t earned.”
His hook slips between us with ominous intent, the cold metal dragging down my stomach in a line that raises goosebumps on my heated skin—not sharp enough to cut, just threatening enough to remind me of the danger, of what he could do if he wanted. A reminder of who holds the power here. A promise of what’s coming if I continue to defy him.
“You’re going to beg,” he says with absolute certainty. “And I still won’t let you cum.”
Then he drops lower, body sliding down mine with feline grace, and his mouth finds me again—hot and wet and deliberately slow.
He licks me with broad strokes of his tongue—once, twice, right over the spot that makes my vision go white and my thoughts scatter like startled birds.
I cry out, shameless and wanton, a strangled moan that betrays everything I’m trying to hide.
“That’s it,” he breathes against my sensitive flesh. “Cry for me, whimper like a good little cunt. But you don’t get to cum, not yet, not until I decide you’ve suffered enough. Not until I say so.”
He flattens his tongue and licks deep, tongue pushing inside me for just a moment before pulling back.
Then stops with agonising abruptness.
Breathless seconds stretch between us like pulled taffy, the pressure unbearable, my body twitching and aching and pleading without words.
