He's going to?—
"I'm not going to fuck you," he says, reading my expression with that uncanny ability he has. "Not tonight. Not until you ask me to. Not until you beg me for it."
"I'll never ask. Never beg."
"We'll see about that too."
He climbs onto the bed. The mattress dips under his weight. Settles beside me, all that bare skin just inches away.
I try to sit up. He pushes me back down, gentle but firm. Undeniable.
"Stay."
"Vaughn—"
"I'm going to touch you now. Make you come. Make you remember that your pleasure belongs to me. That your body responds to me in ways you can't control. That running is pointless because you'll always come back to this."
"No—"
"Yes."
His hand slides over my body, warm against my ribs.
Cups my breast with a possessiveness that makes my breath catch.
Squeezes gently, testing the weight of it in his palm.
I gasp despite myself.
"You're so responsive," he murmurs, his voice low and rough. "So fucking perfect. Your body was made for this, Eden. Made to feel pleasure. Made to respond to me."
His thumb circles my nipple.
Slow. Teasing.
Building sensation with patient precision.
I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to keep from making a sound.
Trying not to give him the satisfaction.
"Don't hold back," he says, noticing immediately. "I want to hear you. I want to know how good this feels. I want every sound, every gasp, every moan. Don't you dare hold back from me."
"It doesn't feel good?—"
"Liar."
His mouth replaces his hand on my breast.
Hot and wet and?—
Oh God.
The sensation shoots straight through me like electricity.
Makes my back arch off the bed.
Makes a sound escape my throat that I can't control, can't suppress, can't take back.
