“No.” The word comes out as a whisper. “Please.”
His fingers trail higher. So close to where I’m aching. So close to proving what a liar I am.
Then he pauses.
Hand on my inner thigh. Not moving higher.
“Last chance, Violet.” His voice is rough. Strained. “Say stop, and I’ll walk away.”
His eyes hold mine. And I see it, the genuine offer. He would stop. If I meant it. If I could make my mouth form the word with any conviction.
I can’t.
Because my body is begging. Throbbing. Wet.
Because I want his hand higher.
Because I’m so fucking tired of fighting.
He sees my surrender. Reads it in my silence, in the way I don’t push him away.
“I don’t want this.”
“Liar,” he whispers against my ear. “You need to pretend, and that’s okay. You need to lie to yourself to take what you want, what we both need.”
His fingers slide higher.
Over my panties first. Thin. Soaked through.
His groan is low and visceral. “Christ, you’re drenched.”
“Please—” But my hips betray me, tilting forward, seeking more pressure.
His laugh is dark. “Please don’t... or please do?”
His fingers slide under the fabric.
Direct contact. Skin on skin.
I gasp, head falling back against stone. So wet his fingers glide through my folds effortlessly. He explores slowly. Methodically. Learning me like he learns everything else, with patience and precision and absolute attention.
He finds my clit. Circles it once.
My whole body jerks.
“Elio—” The word tears from my throat. “Please?—”
My body tells the truth. Hips rolling, seeking more pressure. Wetness coating his fingers.
“Your mouth and your cunt are telling me very different things.” His voice is silk and gravel, right against my ear. “Which one should I believe?”
He slides one finger inside me.
I cry out. Pleasure, not pain. My hands push at his chest but there’s no strength behind it, no conviction, and he doesn’t move. Just watches my face while I fight myself.
“So tight.” His finger curls inside me, finding spots I didn’t know existed. “You’re going to feel so good around my cock.”
“I hate you?—”
