I sob. Not from pain. Not from shame.
From need.
From the brutal, exquisite weight of a second orgasm climbing higher, tighter, meaner.
“Say it,” he demands again, tongue dragging slow and thick over my clit. “Beg for it. Beg me, Tahlia.”
“No,” I whisper, barely audible.
But he hears it.
He fucking loves it.
“Then I’ll take it anyway.”
He slides a third finger inside me.
I scream.
No rhythm now—just chaos. Just pain and pleasure mashed together, like he’s trying to fuck the fight out of me with nothing but his fingers and his tongue and that voice that shouldn’t turn me on but does, god help me, it does.
His hook—presses against my throat, tighter this time, making it harder to breathe, making the blood pound in my ears until it’s just him. Until the world is just him. Until I’m not even sure I’m real unless he’s inside me in some way.
And just when I reach the edge again?—
Just when I start to fall?—
He pulls away.
Again.
Mouth gone.
Fingers gone.
Pressure gone.
I wail. I actually fucking wail, like he ripped something out of me I’ll never get back.
My thighs are shaking. My hands are clawing the sheets. My body is ready to explode and he just smiles down at me like the devil watching a soul try to crawl out of hell.
“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Fucking pathetic. All that fire, all that fight—and one orgasm away from forgetting your own name.”
I shake my head, biting my lip so hard I taste copper.
He leans down, hooking his thumb into my mouth and dragging it down until I can’t hide the mess of my expression. “No more begging until I say. No more cumming unless I allow it. You wanted to play, little Tink? Now you’re in my game.”
He drags the back of his fingers down my cheek, mock-gently, his voice dropping to something darker, something meaner.
“I’m going to leave you like this. Ruined. Aching. Empty. And the next time I touch you, you’ll be grateful just to feel pain.”
Then he stands.
Adjusts his slacks.
And leaves.
Doesn’t look back.
