Good.
I slide two fingers inside her, curling them with exact cruelty. Her back bows like a breaking violin. A strangled cry rips from her throat. My other hand clamps over her mouth.
“You don’t get to make noise,” I snarl. “Not until you give me what I want.”
Her eyes roll back.
I stop moving completely.
She whimpers beneath my hand—thrashing, twisting, trying to fuck herself on my frozen fingers. My grip tightens. She’s panting into my palm now, lips open, spit coating my skin. Beautiful. Broken. Mine.
“Say it,” I growl. “Or I leave you like this. Wet. Full. Empty.”
I press my thumb to her clit, not moving. Just there. Pressure without relief. Pain without satisfaction. The threat of pleasure worse than the denial itself.
I pull my hand away from her mouth.
Her voice comes out in a ragged whisper.
“You.”
I raise a brow. “What about me?”
Her cheeks flush deep pink. Her thighs tremble against my hips.
“I belong to you.”
The sound that leaves me is closer to a growl than a breath. A brutal, filthy thing torn from the blackest part of my chest.
Finally.
I grip her jaw. Force her to meet my eyes. And I smile—sharp, cruel, satisfied.
“Good girl.”
Her breath is ragged, caught somewhere between fear and need—and I drink it in like smoke, letting it burn through me until I can’t remember what it feels like to be anything but starved.
I don’t touch her yet. I look. I devour her with my eyes like I’m cataloguing every twitch, every flush of her skin, every way her pride is shattering just from being seen.
“Don’t close your legs,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “Not unless you want me to break them open.”
She freezes. Then she disobeys. A flicker of rebellion in her spine.
Good girl.
She doesn’t know it yet, but that’s how she gets me. Not with softness. Not with surrender.
With fight.
I crawl over her like a storm, palms caging her wrists above her head, mouth brushing her jaw as I speak.
“You want to cum so badly? I’ll give you the chance—but you’ll fucking thank me whilst I ruin you.”
I let one hand trail down, down, until I’m between her thighs, fingers teasing but never giving, smirking against her cheek when her body betrays her. She’s soaked. Desperate. Practically begging with her skin.
And still, I don’t let her have it.
Because she touched herself without permission. Because she thinks control is something she can keep.
