Instead, he let two fingers drift lower—sliding through the slickness coating my folds, gathering it, spreading it in slow, lazy strokes that never quite reached where I needed pressure most. He circled my entrance without pushing inside, then dragged back up to my clit—once, twice—light enough that it felt like cruelty.
My head fell back on a sob. “Cassian—please?—”
There it was.
The first time I’d begged with his name.
His control visibly cracked for half a second—jaw clenching, breath hissing out between his teeth. Then he mastered it again, the way he mastered everything else.
He leaned down and bit the tender skin just below my ear—not hard enough to mark, just enough to sting.
“Not yet,” he growled against my throat. “You don’t come until I’ve heard that name fall out of your mouth at least a dozen more times. Until you’re so wrecked you can’t remember why you ever thought you could walk away from this.”
His fingers pressed harder against my clit—finally giving me real friction, real pressure—but only for three perfect, devastating strokes.
Then he stopped.
Completely.
I cried out in frustration, nails digging into his forearms.
He caught my wrists in one hand, pinning them above my head against the table with casual strength.
“Look at me.”
I forced my eyes open. His face was inches from mine, expression ruthless and reverent at the same time.
“When I let you come,” he said, voice low and lethal, “it won’t be because you asked nicely. It’ll be because you’ve earned it. Because you’ve given me every last piece of control you’re still clinging to. And when that happens, Lia—” He paused, letting my name sit between us like a promise. “—you’ll screamCassian Lockeuntil your voice gives out.”
He released my wrists.
Stepped back.
Adjusted my panties and jeans with the same careful, unhurried hands that had just ruined me.
Then he offered his palm again.
“Up,” he said.
I took his hand—legs unsteady, body screaming in protest—and let him pull me to my feet.
He steadied me with an arm around my waist until the dizziness passed.
Then he kissed my forehead—soft, almost tender, the contrast so violent it made my chest ache.
“Get dressed properly,” he said, voice calm again.
I nodded, still throbbing, still empty, still owned by a name I’d only just learned.
Cassian Locke.
I stared at him, wrecked and still throbbing.
He offered his hand.
I took it.
And followed him back into the snow—aching, owned, and nowhere near done.
