"Not there," he said when my hips lifted, seeking contact. His hand moved to my thigh, the safe territory of my quadriceps, then lower to trace the delicate skin behind my knee.
I'd never thought of the back of my knee as an erogenous zone, but when he pressed his thumb there, circled slowly, I gasped. My body was so sensitized that every touch felt magnified, every nerve ending singing.
He moved to my other leg, same slow exploration. Inner thigh but not high enough. The crease where leg met hip but not center. Around and around, narrowing circles that never quite reached where I was wet and aching and desperate.
"Kostya," I whimpered, pulling against the restraints. They held firm, silk whispering against my wrists and ankles. "Please. I need—"
"I know what you need," he said, leaning down to press a kiss to my hip bone. Then the other. Then just above my pubic bone, close enough that I could feel his breath on my core. "You'll get it when I decide you're ready."
"I'm ready now," I argued, past dignity, past everything except need.
He chuckled, dark and knowing. "Your body might be ready, kitten. But your mind?" He pressed another kiss to my inner thigh, high enough that his stubble brushed sensitive skin. "Your mind is still trying to maintain control. Still thinking, analyzing, staying one step ahead."
He was right. Even now, even desperate and bound and aching, part of me was cataloging responses, noting angles and pressure points, maintaining that clinical distance that had kept me functional for six months of hell.
"Let go," he commanded softly, his breath hot against my thigh. "Stop thinking. Just feel."
His hand returned to my stomach, played over the soft skin there, and I tried. Tried to shut down the analytical part of my brain, to just exist in sensation without documenting it.
"That's it," he encouraged when my breathing changed, when the tension in my shoulders released slightly. "Good girl. Just feel what I give you."
And I did. Let myself sink into the torture of his patient touch, the exquisite denial of being explored everywhere except where I burned for him. Let myself pull against the silk restraints not to escape but to feel their hold, their promise that I couldn't control this even if I wanted to.
Let myself surrender.
When his mouth finally—finally—descended between my thighs, the relief was so intense I nearly sobbed. That first touch of his tongue against my core, warm and wet and exactly what I'd been desperate for, sent electricity shooting up my spine. My hips bucked instinctively, seeking more pressure, more friction, more everything.
His hands clamped down on my hip bones, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises I'd treasure later. The grip wasn't just controlling—it was possessive, claiming, holding me exactly where he wanted me while he took his time destroying me.
And he did take his time.
His tongue moved in slow, deliberate strokes, learning my landscape like he'd learned the rest of my body. A flat press against my clit that made me gasp. A circling motion that had me pulling against the silk restraints. A gentle suction that turned my bones to liquid.
He was methodical about it. Testing different pressures, different patterns, cataloging my responses. The doctor in me recognized the approach even as the rest of me was lost in sensation. He was creating a mental map of my pleasure, notingwhat made me moan versus what made me cry out, what made my thighs tremble versus what made my whole body arch.
"So wet," he murmured against me, and the vibration of his voice made me whimper. "So ready. You've been thinking about this all day, haven't you?"
I had. Through every normal moment at PetSmart, every step on the boardwalk, every casual touch. My body had been preparing itself for this, for him.
He returned to his work with renewed focus, and I felt the orgasm building with alarming speed. All that teasing, all that denial, had left me balanced on a knife's edge. It wouldn't take much to push me over. Just a little more pressure, a little more speed, just—
He pulled back.
Completely.
Left me empty and aching with my orgasm just out of reach, hovering right there but with nothing to complete it.
"No," I gasped, the word torn from me without thought. "No, please, I was so close—"
"I know," he said, pressing a gentle kiss to my inner thigh. Almost apologetic except for the satisfaction in his voice. "That's the point."
Before I could argue, his mouth returned, and this time there was no slow build. He went straight for what he'd learned worked, tongue circling my clit with devastating precision while his lips provided just enough suction to make me see stars.
The orgasm rebuilt even faster this time, my body desperate for the release it had been denied. Every muscle tensing, every nerve ending firing, that coil in my core winding tighter and tighter. I could taste it, that moment of release, could feel myself racing toward—
He stopped again.
This time I did sob. A broken sound that would have embarrassed me if I'd had any dignity left. But dignity had fled somewhere around the second time he'd traced my ribs without touching my breasts. Now there was just need, overwhelming and absolute.
