And he waits.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t press. Just watches, breath steady, like this is some game he’s already won and he’s letting me pretend I still have a move to make.
“I hate you,” I whisper again, voice wrecked.
“I know, little fairy,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But your cunt’s trying to kiss me through your knickers.”
Heat floods my cheeks. My spine arches—involuntary. Fuck. I hate that it’s involuntary.
He drags the hook lower. Down over my stomach. Down the seam of my knickers where the heat pulses loudest. He doesn’t touch—never touches. Just traces, just hovers, just teases like the devil himself, grinning through the flames.
And I can’t stop the sound that leaves me.
A whimper. Shaky. Raw.
My thighs clench.
His chuckle is dark. Hungry. Filthy.
“Keep fighting it, sweetheart,” he says, dragging the metal edge up again. “Let’s see how long your pride lasts before your pussy breaks.”
“Stop,” I gasp, even as my hips jerk forward.
He leans in.
His lips brush mine. Not kissing. Just hovering, his breath hot and slow and thick as syrup.
“No.”
He says it like a sentence. A command. A fucking religion.
My body shakes.
His mouth moves lower, grazing down my jaw, down my throat, until he’s kneeling in front of the bed. His eyes—those icy, gleaming eyes—stay on mine the whole time, like he wants me to see what he’s about to do.
Like he needs me to witness my own ruin.
Then his breath ghosts over the inside of my thigh.
And my body betrays me again.
I moan.
Not quietly. Not softly.
Loudly.
Embarrassingly.
Really.
His hand grips my thigh, spreading them apart slowly, deliberately, whilst the hook presses flat and cold against my ribs like a silent warning.
“Keep them open,” he says, voice low and gravelled. “Or I stop.”
I nod—barely—because I can’t trust my voice not to crack.
He dips lower.
