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Lukas’s hands are gone suddenly, and he’s standing, and retreating. My pussy spasms aroundnothing.The orgasm-that-never-was recedes.

He rises from the bed without a word. He retreats to the dresser, picks up his tumbler of vodka, and takes a slow sip. He’s careful not to look at me.

I’m panting, straining at the ties, my body screaming for release. The ache between my legs is almost unbearable.

Lukas takes another sip of vodka. His face is still turned away, broad shoulders silhouetted against the dim light from the window, when he speaks.

“Do you love me, Rae?”

I want so badly to answer. The words areright there—three stupid syllables, eight letters, the easiest phrase in the English language. People say it every day without thinking. Strangers say it to baristas. Drunk girls say it in bathroom lines.

ButIcan’t say it to the man who deserves it most of all.

My throat closes up. My tongue turns to lead.

He’s asking you directly. All you have to do is…

Nothing comes out.

Lukas nods slowly, like he expected exactly that. He turns toward me and I see that his eyes have darkened and his beard can no longer hide the wicked slash of his frown.

“Then I suppose we’ll just have to continue.”

He sets down his glass and turns back to the bed.

And that’s when I understand: This isn’t foreplay. This isn’t some kinky game he wants to show me.

This istorture.

He’s going to edge me until I break.

Time stops meaning anything.

Minutes blur into hours, or maybe it’s the other way around. The only markers I have are the crests and crashes of pleasure hoped for and denied.

Again.

And again.

Andagain.

He tortures me with the same finger routine a few more times. Then his mouth replaces his fingers. He’s spent the last three days learning every little thing that makes me tick. He can makemy toes curl and my spine buckle. He can coax all the different moans out of my throat.

I’m so close I can taste it, so close I’m sobbing into the pillow, so close I’mbeggingwith my eyes since I’m not allowed to use my voice?—

And each time, he pulls away.

When he does, he asks, “Do you love me, Rae?”

Itryto answer.God, I try so hard the veins in my neck stand out and my jaw aches from the effort. But the words are trapped behind some invisible wall, some childhood terror I can’t name. A primitive part of me that learned long ago that saying those words out loud only leads to losing the loved thing.

So, each time, nothing comes out.

Lukas’s expression never changes. He just nods, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and begins again.

It gets worse.

He pulls his hard penis out through the zipper in his slicks and drags himself through my wetness, nudging against my clit with each pass. The sensation is exquisite and awful in equal measure. I can feel the ridge of his tip catching against my entrance, teasing, promising—but never, ever delivering.