"Come. Now."
And I do.
My body obeys him even when my mind is still trying to resist.
The orgasm crashes through me in waves that seem endless, stealing my breath, my thoughts, everything except the pleasure radiating from where his hand is still moving.
I arch off the bed, back bowing, a cry tearing from my throat that I can't suppress.
Making sounds I don't recognize as my own.
Giving him exactly what he wanted.
Proving I'm his.
He doesn't stop.
Keeps moving his fingers, his thumb, prolonging the pleasure until it borders on pain, until I'm shaking and gasping and begging?—
"Please—please stop—Vaughn—too much—can't?—"
Only then does he stop.
Withdraws his hand slowly, carefully.
I lie there trembling, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to piece together thoughts from the scattered fragments in my brain.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, and I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "You're so fucking beautiful when you come. When you stop fighting and just let yourself feel."
I should feel ashamed.
Should hate myself for responding, for coming, for giving him what he wanted, for proving his point so completely.
But all I feel is empty.
Hollowed out.
Wrung dry.
Like something inside me broke and I don't know how to fix it, don't know if I even want to fix it.
Tears slide down my temples, hot tracks against cooling skin.
Vaughn sees them immediately.
Wipes them away with fingers still wet from being inside me.
"Shh. You're okay. You're safe. I've got you."
"I hate you," I whisper, and it comes out broken.
"I know."
"I hate that I want this. Hate what you're doing to me."
"I know that too."
He gathers me against him before I can argue and pulls me into his arms, skin against skin.
