He notices.
And that smile—god, that smile. Crooked. Cold. Carved out of something older than cruelty itself.
“I said,” he murmurs, voice now just breath against my ear, “hands where I can see them.”
I yank them away from the mattress where they’d instinctively clawed, raising them above my head with a ragged breath. It makes me feel like a lamb. Offered. Spread. Useless.
But he likes it.
And I hate that I like that.
“I don’t think you understand how rare you are,” he says, sliding his hand down my spine in a featherlight tease, barely grazing. “They all shatter too fast. Cry too soon. Break like paper dolls.”
He presses lower. Over my arse. Between my thighs. That hand pauses.
“But you…” A pause. A groan. A sound so deep and dark I feel it more than hear it. “You scream at me with your silence. You look me in the eye when you should be crawling. You dare to want.”
His fingers brush—just barely—against where I ache.
Then vanish again.
I sob.
A broken, shamed, needy sound that doesn’t even sound like it belongs to me.
And he laughs.
Not kindly. Not with amusement. But with delight. Cruel, utter delight.
“There it is,” he breathes. “That sweet little sound I’ll chase you through hell for. That sound you swore you’d never make for me.”
He pulls back.
I lift my head, dizzy, ruined, confused.
Only to see him roll up his sleeves. Slowly. Methodically. As if he’s preparing for a business meeting. Or a bloodletting.
He walks to the end of the bed. Watching me. Head tilted.
“You’re going to thank me,” he says. “For making you wait.”
I don’t answer.
His jaw flexes.
“You will thank me, Tinkerbell. Or I’ll tie you up and fuck you through a week of denial so brutal your thighs will tremble every time I look at you.”
I swallow. “T-Thank you.”
He steps forward, the mattress dipping as his weight finally joins me again—finally—and his hands wrap around my hips like he owns them.
He pulls me back, slow and forceful, until I feel the thick, unforgiving line of his cock pressed between my thighs—but he still doesn’t slide in.
“I told you,” he says, voice low and ragged now. “You only cum when I say.”
He pushes forward. Not in. Just against. So I feel every agonising inch of him, not inside me. And then he grinds. Slow. Controlled. Deliberate.
I bite the sheets.
