“You’re so wet for me, little storm.” Embarrassment flows through me.
He moves over me, settling between my thighs, the hard, heavy weight of him a promise and a threat. He lines himself up, the blunt head of him pressing against my entrance. He doesn't enter me, he just rests there like a tantalizing, agonizing pressure, letting the anticipation build to an almost unbearable peak.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice rough with a need that mirrors my own.
My eyes flutter open, struggling to focus on his face in the dim light. His features are sharp, etched in shadow and need. His blue eyes are burning, holding me captive. “I want to watch you when I take you.”
The words should terrify me. They should send me scrambling from the bed. Instead, they send a fresh wave of liquid heatpooling in my core. My hips rock up against him, a silent, desperate request for more, for anything.
He smiles, a slow, devastating curve of his lips. “So eager.”
And then with one slow, deliberate thrust, he sinks into me.
The sensation is overwhelming, a fullness, a stretch, a burn that is both pain and pleasure. I cry out, a sharp, broken sound. He pauses, buried to the hilt, giving me a moment to adjust. His eyes never leave mine, watching, cataloging, possessing.
“You were a virgin.” It's both a question and a statement.
I can only nod, a tear escaping and tracing a path down my temple into my hair. My secret, my last line of defense, lay bare and claimed.
He lowers his head, his lips brushing against my ear. “Good,” he whispers, the word a dark, possessive brand. “That means I'm your only.”
And with that, he begins to move.
Each thrust is a deliberate act of ownership. He is not just taking my body; he is writing himself into my history. His pace is punishing, a relentless rhythm that pushes me higher and higher, stretching me to the absolute limit of my control.
The pressure inside me is a coiled spring, wound tighter and tighter. My back arches, my hands, still trapped above my head, clench and unclench. My mind is a blank canvas, painted over and over with the single, overwhelming sensation of him.
“Please,” I gasp, the word torn from my throat. “Please, West.”
“Please what?” he demands, his voice a low growl. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want… I need…” I can't form the words. The need is too great, a desperate, aching thing.
He moves with a slow, possessive rhythm. A deliberate, claiming cadence that is both a punishment and a perverse sort of worship. He watches my face, his eyes dark and intense, searching for every flicker of emotion, every crack in my facade.He wants to see me break. He wants to see me surrender completely.
And I do.
A sob, hot and silent, escapes my throat as my body arches against his, a final, involuntary betrayal. He feels it, he knows. He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a low, rough whisper that cuts through the haze.
“You feel that, Kinsley?” he breathes, his words a hot brand against my skin. “That's you, finally admitting the truth. That's you, belonging to me.”
“You don't get to come until I say so,” he reminds me, his grip on my wrists tightening, a reminder of his absolute command. The denial is exquisite agony, a sweet torture that pushes me to the very brink of madness. He is teaching my body a new language, a language of obedience and delayed gratification.
He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and the new pressure against my core sends a jolt of pure lightning through me. I cry out, a sharp, strangled sound. My hips buck against him, a frantic, desperate movement, seeking more of that exquisite friction.
He chuckles again, a dark, triumphant sound. “So responsive.” He lowers his head, his mouth finding my breast. He takes my nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, a sudden, sharp pleasure that races through me. His tongue circles the sensitive peak, then his teeth scrape against it, a sharp, biting edge of pain that melts into a searing wave of pleasure.
The dual sensations are too much. The punishing rhythm of his hips, and the wet heat of his mouth on my breast—it's a symphony of sensation, and I am the instrument he is playing, pushing me toward a crescendo I am forbidden to reach.
Another tear escapes, tracing a path down my temple. “Please,” I whisper, the word a prayer, a curse. “Please, I can't...”
“Look at me,” he commands again, his voice rough. I force my eyes open, my vision blurry with unshed tears. He watches me, a dark, possessive fire in his eyes. He wants to see my surrender. He wants to watch me break. “You can,” he says, his hips snapping forward with a particularly deep, punishing thrust that steals my breath. “You will.”
He moves to my other breast, lavishing it with the same torturous attention, sucking, licking, biting. Each pull of his mouth sends a fresh wave of liquid heat to my core, tightening the coil inside me to an impossible degree. I am teetering on the very edge, a frantic, desperate mess of need and denial.
“Look how well you’re taking me,” he praises. His words slide over me in waves of lust.
His control is absolute. He is a conductor, I am the entire orchestra, and he is withholding the final, crashing chord. The denial is a form of torment more intimate than any pain. He is claiming not just my body but my pleasure, making it a gift he can bestow or withhold at his whim.
