"No one's out here. It's just us." His teeth grazed me again, harder. "Let me hear you, Charlie."
I moaned.
"That's it. Good girl."
There it was again. That praise that made me melt.
His hand slid higher, fingers finding me wet and ready. I gasped, hips bucking against his hand.
"Still," he reminded me, his grip tightening on my wrists. "I'm in charge. Not you."
He slid one finger inside me — slow, achingly slow — and I moaned. He watched my face as he did it — every flinch, every shiver — reading me the way he read rooms.
"You're beautiful like this," he said, adding a second finger, curling them both in a way that made stars burst behind my eyelids. "The fight. The walls. The armor you strap on every morning — and underneath it, you just want someone to tell you to let go."
"Don't —" I gasped as his thumb found my clit again, circling in tight, devastating strokes. "Don't psychoanalyze me while you're —fuck—"
"While I'm what?"
"Dominic."
"Say it."
"While you're — making me —" I couldn't form sentences. His fingers were moving faster now, thumb relentless, and the tension was building like a wave gathering force — huge and dark and inevitable. "I'm going to —"
"Not yet."
He slowed down. Just enough. Just enough to keep me at the edge without letting me tip over. I made a sound that was embarrassingly close to a whimper.
"Dominic —"
"Not yet." His mouth found mine, swallowing my protests. "I decide when. That was the deal."
"I didn't agree totorture."
"You agreed to trust me." He kissed me deeper, his fingers maintaining that maddening, steady rhythm — enough to keep me burning but not enough to break. "So trust me. I'm going to make it worth it."
I wanted to fight him. Wanted to snap something sharp and defiant, prove I wasn't the kind of woman who begged.
But I was. I was exactly that kind of woman, with him, in this moment. And the terrifying part was that it didn't feel like weakness. It felt like freedom.
"Please," I whispered.
"Please what?"
"Please let me come."
"One more time."
"Please, Dominic. Please."
"Good girl," he breathed, and his fingers drove deep.
I came apart.
The orgasm hit like a riptide — no buildup, no warning, just a wall of pleasure that slammed into me and kept going. I cried out against his mouth, back arching off the seat, hands strainingagainst his grip. He held me through it — his hand between my thighs riding me through every wave, his other hand anchoring my wrists so I couldn't fly apart entirely.
It lasted longer than I thought possible. Every time I thought it was fading, his thumb would circle again and another aftershock would roll through me. I heard myself making sounds I'd never made before — broken, desperate, undone sounds that didn't belong to Charlie Collins, paparazzo, master of disguise, woman who never let anyone see her vulnerable.
