He’s braced above me now, his forearms on either side of my head, caging me in. The dim lamplight catches the hard line of his jaw, the dark intensity in his eyes.
He looks every bit the predator I know him to be.
This is what I want.
This is what I need.
My body sighs with relief.
This is the surrender I've been craving.
But just like he said, he's not going to make it that easy.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice a rough growl that sends a shiver straight through me.
My gaze flies to his, my breath catching in my throat.
His eyes, dark and fathomless, are locked on mine. There's no judgment there, no mockery, just a deep, unwavering intensity that sees right through me.
"You can keep fighting this," he says, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur. "You can keep pretending you want something different. Something… normal."
He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear.
"But we both know the truth," he whispers, his breath hot against my skin. "You can't lie to me. Not when you're wrapped around my cock, this wet, this desperate for it."
I whimper, a soft, defeated sound.
My hips buck against his, a desperate, involuntary movement.
He starts to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that has me arching my back, my hands fisting in the sheets.
He's not fucking me.
Not yet.
He's just… moving.
A slow, in-and-out glide that’s both a promise and torture.
"Tell me, Erica," he murmurs against my skin, his lips tracing the line of my jaw.
"I need..." I start, then stop, my cheeks flushing with humiliation and desire. The words are a knot in my throat.
"You need what?" he prompts, his thumb coming up to stroke my bottom lip.
I squeeze my eyes shut, a fresh wave of tears pricking the backs of my eyes. "Please don't make me say it." It's a whisper, a last-ditch effort to preserve some shred of dignity.
He stops moving. Goes completely still inside me.
The loss of friction is a physical ache. My eyes snap open.
His expression is unreadable, but there's a new tension in his body, a coiled power that feels both dangerous and exhilarating. He's waiting.
"Fine. This is what you want?" I snap, the word sharp and brittle with frustration. "To see me beg?"
I glare up at him, my anger a flimsy shield against the vulnerability threatening to consume me.
A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face.
