“Yes.”
He withdraws slightly. “Yes, what?”
“Yes, there.”
“Good.” He does it again. “Now I know.”
He’s cataloging my responses, learning what my body responds to.
His mouth returns while his fingers keep working inside me. The combination is too much. I’m already close. The orgasm is building low in my stomach, spreading outward.
“Silas, I’m going to come.”
He stops, pulls his fingers out, and lifts his mouth.
“No.”
A frustrated sound tears out of my throat.
“Not yet.” He kisses my hip bone. “You come when I say.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I don’t care about fair.” His fingers push back inside. “I care about making you beg.”
He builds me up again. Slower this time. More deliberate.
His tongue traces patterns. His fingers curl and press. And every time I get close, he backs off.
Five times.
Six.
By the seventh, I’m pulling so hard against the restraints that the headboard creaks.
“Please.”
“Please, what?”
“Please let me come.”
“Not good enough.” His thumb replaces his tongue, circling. “Beg properly.”
“Please, Silas. Please. I need to come. Please.”
“Look at me.”
I force my eyes open. He’s watching me from between my thighs, and his eyes are dark.
“Don’t look away.”
His mouth returns. His fingers curl. And this time he doesn’t stop.
The orgasm rips through me. Muscles locking. Back arching off the bed. I’m making sounds I don’t recognize, and I can’t look away from him even though I want to close my eyes.
He works me through it, and he doesn’t let up until I’m shaking and oversensitive and trying to close my thighs. Only then does he pull back.
He wipes his mouth again. Then he leans forward and kisses me.
