The triumph of her surrender is pumping in my blood. My cock is hard, aching against the strain of my trousers. I want her. More than I've wanted anything in a long time.
But not yet.
I want her to feel this. To feel the slow burn of her own surrender.
Instead of continuing down, I glide my hand back up, over her stomach, and cup her breast. Her breath hitches as I test its weight in my palm, my thumb brushing over the hard peak of her nipple.
Her back arches slightly, a silent plea for more.
I smile, a slow, predatory curve of my lips. I lean down, my breath warm against her ear.
“You want this,” I murmur.
“No,” she says, breathless. "I don't."
It’s a weak denial. It’s the last gasp of her pride. I almost admire it.
I roll her nipple between my fingers. Her gasp is sharp this time, her body arching into my touch.
“I warned you not to lie to me,” I say, my voice a low rumble against her ear.
I tug gently, just enough to make it sting.
A soft whimper escapes her lips.
My head dips to hers. I don't kiss her. Not yet. I just let my lips hover over hers, so close I can feel the warmth of her breath, the frantic beat of her pulse in her lips.
She's waiting for it. Anticipating it.
I pull back.
Her eyes open, confused, dazed. A faint flush of pink stains her cheeks, a mixture of shame and frustration.
“Get on the bed,” I command.
She hesitates for a fraction of a second, her gaze flicking toward the bed, then back to me.
“Now,” I add, my voice leaving no room for argument.
She moves, her steps slow and unsteady. She walks to the bed, her back ramrod straight, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity. It’s a futile, and beautiful, effort.
She sits on the edge of the bed, then looks at me, her eyes questioning, waiting.
“Lie down.”
She does, her movements stiff and awkward. She lies on her back, her arms crossed over her breasts, her legs pressed together. She looks like an offering on an altar.
My gaze sweeps over her, from the wild cascade of her blonde hair on the white pillows to the soles of her feet. She’s a canvas, and I’m the artist. And I’m about to paint her in shades of pleasure and pain, of submission and surrender.
“Hands above your head,” I say. “Grip the headboard.”
Her eyes widen slightly. She looks at the ornate, dark wood of the headboard, then back at me.
“Why?”
“Because I told you not to hide yourself from me, and you did,” I say simply.
Her arms tremble as she lifts them, her hands finding the smooth spindles of the headboard. Her fingers curl around them, her knuckles white.
