"Yes." It comes out as a groan. "Fuck, yes."
I work him with deliberate strokes, learning the rhythm that makes his breath catch, the pressure that makes his hips buck. I've touched him countless times before, but never with him completely at my mercy, unable to grab my hips or flip me over or take control.
He has to lie there and take whatever I give him.
The power of it is dizzying.
I stroke him faster, watching him climb toward the edge. His jaw is clenched, his arms straining against the restraints, every muscle in his body tight with building tension. He's close—I can feel it in the way he's thickening in my hand, and I can see it in the desperation on his face.
And that’s when I stop.
"What—" His eyes fly open, wild with frustration. "Seraphina, don't you dare?—"
"Don't I dare what?" I release him completely, sitting back on my heels. "Edge you? Deny you? Make you feel exactly what you made me feel?"
He's breathing hard, his cock bobbing against his stomach, angry and neglected. The look he gives me could melt steel.
"You're evil."
"I learned from an expert." I reach for the wine glass, taking a leisurely sip while he watches with murder in his eyes. "Do you remember what you said to me earlier? 'You can come as many times as I want you to.' Well, guess what, husband?"
I lean down, my lips brushing his ear.
"You can come when I want you to. And I'm not done playing yet."
The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a curse. I've never heard him so frustrated, so desperate. It's addictive.
I take my time with him. Wine poured across his chest, licked away with slow strokes of my tongue. Grapes traced across his abs, his hip bones, everywhere except where he really wants them. My mouth on his neck, his jaw, the sensitive spot below his ear—everywhere except his lips, his cock, the places that would give him real relief.
I bring him to the edge three more times, and each time I stop just before he can fall over. By the third denial, he's actually shaking, his body covered in a sheen of sweat, his voice hoarsefrom cursing and begging and threatening all the things he's going to do to me when he gets free.
I love every second of it.
"Please." The word is wrecked, barely recognizable. "Seraphina, please. I can't—Ineed?—"
"What do you need?" I'm straddling his hips now, his cock pressed against my stomach, so close to where we both want it. "Tell me."
"I need to be inside you." He's given up on pride entirely. "I need to feel you, love. Please let me fuck you."
Love. Even now, even desperate and denied, he calls me that. The tenderness beneath the need makes my heart squeeze.
"You don't get to fuck me," I tell him, and I watch the devastation flash across his face before I continue. "I'm going to fuckyou."
Before he can respond, I rise up and sink down onto him in one smooth motion.
We both cry out at the sensation. He's so hard, so thick, stretching me in that perfect way that always makes me see stars. And he's been denied so long that just being inside me is probably overwhelming—I can feel him throbbing, his desperate need to thrust.
But he can't thrust. He can only lie there and let me ride him.
"Oh fuck." His voice is guttural, animalistic. "Oh fuck, Seraphina, you feel?—"
"Shh." I start to move, rolling my hips in a slow rhythm. "No talking. Just feeling."
He obeys. For once in his life, my controlling, commanding husband does exactly what he's told.
I ride him slowly at first, finding my rhythm, taking my own pleasure. The angle is perfect—every downstroke hits so perfectly. I brace my hands on his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath my palms, and let myself get lost in the sensation.
His eyes never leave my face. Even through the mask, I can see the intensity of his gaze—watching me move, watching me take what I want from his body, watching me use him for my own pleasure.
