“Please what?”
“More,” I breathed. “Please, more.”
He rewarded me.
His thumb returned to my clit while his fingers worked inside me, rhythm steady and brutal in its patience.
Every stroke built pressure. Every circle dragged me closer.
My body started to chase it despite his command not to grind.
He felt it immediately.
His hand at my waist tightened, holding me still. “Don’t.”
I whined, helpless.
He leaned closer, mouth brushing my ear without kissing. “Beg properly.”
My throat tightened with humiliation.
With need.
“Please,” I whispered, voice breaking. “Please let me come.”
A pause.
His fingers slowed just enough to torture.
“Why?” he asked.
Because you want it, I thought wildly.Because you started this. Because you arranged a summit and a car service and a house in the snow and you told me to go without panties and my body obeyed like it was born to?—
“Because I need it,” I said instead. “Because you have me like this and I can’t?—”
“Good,” he murmured, and his rhythm sharpened.
Harder. Faster.
My whole body went taut, breath stalling as the edge hit.
He watched my face like he wanted to memorize the exact moment I broke.
“I’m—” I gasped.
“Come,” he said. One word. Permission.
My orgasm slammed through me so violently I shook, clenching around his fingers, mouth open in a sound I couldn’t control.
He didn’t stop.
He rode it with me, working me through every tremor until my legs felt like water.
When he finally withdrew his fingers, I swayed, breathless, wrecked.
He lifted his hand.
Looked at the slick on his fingers like it was proof of something.
