Meeting his eyes takes effort, but I force myself to hold his gaze. Intensity there steals my breath, desire and possession and depth I can't name.
"Good." His thumb brushes across my lower lip. "Now listen carefully. Right now, in this room, you don't make decisions. You don't plan. You don't control anything." His other hand finds the belt of my robe, fingers toying with the fabric. "I'm going to take care of you. I'm going to show you what it feels like to let go. And you're going to trust me to keep you safe while you do. Understand?"
"Yes." My voice comes out breathless, already affected by the authority in his tone.
His thumb pauses on my lower lip. "Sir. When you're with me like this, it's 'Yes, Sir.'"
The correction sends heat flooding through me, establishing the dynamic clearly. "Yes, Sir."
"Good girl." His fingers work the belt loose, parting the robe to reveal the tank top and sleep shorts I wore to bed. He slides the robe off my shoulders, letting it pool behind me. "Arms up."
I raise my arms, and he pulls the tank top over my head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. Cool air hits my bare skin, and my nipples tighten immediately. His gaze drops to my chest, darkening with want, but he doesn't touch yet.
"Hands on the headboard." Command is quiet, absolute. "Hold on and don't let go unless I tell you to."
My hands find the headboard, fingers curling around the smooth wood. The position arches my back slightly, presenting myself to him in ways that feel both alarming and exhilarating.
"Perfect." His hands slide over me. "You're so beautiful like this. Trusting me. Letting me see you."
His touch is everywhere and nowhere, fingertips ghosting across my collarbone, down between my breasts, across my ribs. Each pass skims without settling, building anticipation until I'mtrembling, until every nerve ending screams for more pressure, more contact, more of anything.
When his mouth finally closes over my nipple, hot and wet and demanding, I gasp, back arching despite my best efforts to stay still. His tongue circles the sensitive peak, teeth grazing just enough to make me whimper. The sensation is electric, magnified by the vulnerability of my position and the way he's controlling every moment, every touch, every breath.
"Hold that position." His breath is hot against my throat. "You move, we stop."
Staying still takes monumental effort when every touch makes me want to move, to seek more, to take control back. But his hand splays across my stomach, holding me in place with just enough pressure to remind me that this is his to direct, his to orchestrate. His mouth continues its torturous exploration, moving to my other breast while his thumb strokes the wet nipple he just abandoned, keeping the sensation alive, keeping me on edge.
His mouth moves lower, trailing heat down my ribs to my stomach. His tongue traces patterns across my skin, tasting, claiming. When he reaches the waistband of my sleep shorts, he pauses, looking up at me with dark eyes that promise both pleasure and torment. "These come off. Lift your hips."
I lift, and he slides them down my legs slowly, deliberately, taking my underwear with them. The fabric drags across sensitized skin, and I shiver. Exposure should feel dangerous, but all I feel is safe and desired and seen in ways I haven't been seen in so long. His gaze travels up my body, lingering, possessive, and the heat in his eyes makes me clench with need.
"Legs apart." The command makes my breath hitch. "Show me everything."
Opening my legs feels like the ultimate surrender, vulnerability multiplied until I'm shaking with it. But I do it,spreading my thighs to give him access to everything, baring myself completely. The position makes me acutely aware of how wet I am, how ready, how desperate for his touch.
"Christ, Marissa." His hands slide up my inner thighs, callused palms rough against soft skin, thumbs brushing dangerously close to where I'm already wet and aching. "You're stunning. Perfect. And right now you belong to me. Say it."
"I belong to you." The words come out without hesitation, breathy and raw. "Right now, I belong to you."
"Good girl." He leans in, and the first touch of his mouth against me makes me cry out, sharp and desperate. His tongue is skilled and devastating, working me with the same focused intensity he brings to everything else. He explores every fold, every sensitive nerve, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that make my thighs tremble. My hands tighten on the headboard, holding on like he commanded even as my body tries to arch into the sensation, tries to chase more of that perfect pressure.
"Stay still," he reminds me between strokes, his voice muffled against my flesh. "Take what I give you and trust me to give you what you need."
Trusting him feels easier than breathing. I force myself still, let him control the pace and pressure, surrender to the sensation building in my core. His tongue circles my clit, teasing, never quite giving me the direct pressure I'm craving. When his fingers join his mouth, sliding inside me with deliberate precision, filling me, stretching me, I'm already close to the edge. He crooks them just right, finding that spot that makes stars explode behind my eyes, and works it mercilessly while his tongue continues its assault on my clit.
"Not yet." The command cuts through the pleasure, sharp and absolute. "You don't come until I say you can. Understand?"
"Yes." A single word is all I can manage, choked and desperate.
His fingers still inside me, his other hand moves up to find my nipple, tweaking it hard enough to make me gasp. "Yes, what?" The correction comes with the sharp pinch. "When you forget your manners, there are consequences. Now answer me properly."
"Yes, Sir."
"Good girl. Hold on for me. Just a little longer." His fingers curl inside me again, his tongue pressing harder against my clit, and holding on becomes torture. Sweet, exquisite torture.
Holding on feels impossible when every nerve is firing, when pleasure builds to unbearable heights, when I'm balanced on a knife's edge between control and chaos. But I force myself to breathe through it, to stay still, to wait for permission even as my body begs for release. The control he's exerting isn't cruel but careful, teaching me that I can surrender completely and still be safe, that he'll take me to the edge and catch me when I fall.
His mouth works me harder, faster, tongue pressing against my clit while his fingers pump in and out in devastating rhythm. The tension coils tighter, tighter, unbearable, and I'm sobbing with the effort of holding back, of waiting, of trusting him to know when I need permission.
