"Again," he commanded when I tried to still. "You wanted to come so badly. So come. Show me how grateful you are."
"I can't—too much—"
"You can." He rocked me against his thigh, relentless. "Your body knows how. Stop thinking. Just feel."
The second orgasm built on the ruins of the first, overwhelming and almost painful. I sobbed against his shoulder, hands fisted in his shirt, completely at his mercy.
"Again."
"Please—"
"Is that a no? Do you want to disappoint Daddy after he's been so generous?"
"No!" The thoughtof disappointing him was worse than overstimulation. "No, I'll—I'll be good."
"Then come again. Now."
My body obeyed even as my mind scattered. The third orgasm felt like dying, like dissolving, like becoming nothing but sensation and submission. I screamed into his neck, dignity abandoned, everything abandoned except the need to please him.
"One more," he murmured, and I might have begged but words were beyond me. "Just one more, baby. Show me how perfect you can be."
The fourth destroyed me. Left me shaking and sobbing and completely undone, slumped against him like a marionette with cut strings. He gentled his touch, soothing instead of stimulating, whispering praise that worked its way past the white noise in my head.
"You're my favorite little problem," he breathed against my hair. "Do you know that? My brilliant, broken, beautiful problem that I can't solve and can't let go."
"Why?" The question came out wrecked, barely audible.
"Because you make me feel alive." His arms wrapped around me, holding me together as I shook apart. "Three years of perfect control, and you make me want to throw it all away. Make me want impossible things."
"Like what?"
"Like keeping you." The admission sounded torn from him. "Not just for twelve weeks. Not just for research. Just... keeping you."
"That's not—wecan't—"
"I know." He pulled back enough to see my face, thumbs wiping away tears. "But knowing something is impossible doesn't stop you from wanting it."
"Is that what I am? Something impossible?"
"You're everything impossible." He kissed my forehead, gentle as butterfly wings. "You're submission wrapped in defiance. Strength disguised as breakage. The subject who became—"
"Became what?"
He studied my face for a long moment, something war-torn in his expression. "More," he said finally. "You became more than I know how to handle professionally. And that terrifies me."
"Good." I managed a shaky smile. "You terrify me too."
"I know." He shifted me off his thigh, and I whimpered at the loss. "But we have work to do. Protocols to follow. A contract to fulfill."
"Fuck the contract."
"Language." But there was no heat in it. "Eight more weeks, baby. Eight more weeks of sessions and conditioning and careful documentation. Then..."
"Then what?"
"Then we see who we are without the structure. Without the roles." He helped me stand on shaky legs. "If we're anything at all."
"And if we're not?"
