I leave a long enough pause that he knows I expect an answer. “I tried,” he admits, keeping his eyes clenched tight. “I couldn’t?—”
He cuts himself off before he can admit just how much of a hold I’ve had over him these past weeks.
“Couldn’t what, Becky? Couldn’t make yourself come? Or didn’t want to?” I want him to admit the truth to me. I’ll force him if I have to.
“I didn’t want?—”
I tsk and pet his hair. “You didn’t want what? Didn’t want to make yourself come? Didn’t want to admit how much you wanted me to make you? Is that why you waited for me?”
“I didn’t want to wait!” he rasps. “You got in my head, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t make myself come, okay?”
Holy fuck, that’s… hot. And kind of amazing. To have that kind of power over someone else. It’s heady and intense.
I reach out and touch him lightly with just the tips of my fingers. With a barely there touch, I brush over the dark, swollen head of his cock, gather a slick bead and pull back.
He hisses like I burned him, and his knees buckle a little.
“Easy,” I say, and because I can’t resist, I lift my fingers to my mouth and lick them clean.
The sound that escapes him is low and wrecked—half pain, half reverence. All desperate.
It’s intoxicating.
I step back to give us both a second, turning on some of the nearby showerheads to muffle the sounds I know I’m going to draw out of him. My own cock is heavy and aching at the mere sight of the great Lincoln Beckett brought to such dire straits because ofme. I wrap my hand loosely around myself, pumping in slow, firm strokes as I watch his visibly throbbing cock strain and leak, dripping onto the floor.
“Kneel.”
He sinks without protest this time.
Water patters on his shoulders from the showerhead over. His hair is damp, his cheeks are pink, and there’s a brightness in his eyes I haven’t seen before. It’s something more desperate and raw than he was even in the stairwell the first time I made him come.
“You want my cum?” I ask, voice low.
His lashes tremble. “Yes.”
“Where?”
He swallows. “Anywhere. I don’t care. Just—please. Please let me come too.”
I hum, lazily working my fist, watching every twitch in his face. “You know what I want to hear.”
His jaw flexes. He shakes his head again, stubborn to the end. He can deny it all he wants, but he came here for a reason. He listened and obeyed for a reason.
I walk around his body and get to my knees next to him so he can feel the heat of my body, smell the soap and mutual need on my skin. My hand moves a little faster on myself, breath hitching as my fist bumps against his hip with each stroke.
“Say it,” I murmur.
“No,” he rasps, though his hips jerk at the word like defying me turns him on.
“Say it,” I repeat, firmer.
He blinks his eyes furiously, shoulders hunched, like the syllables themselves might kill him. “Please, Brody?—”
My hand moves faster, the slick sounds of my fist working my cock audible over the hum of excitement and splash of water on the tile. “Say it,” I snap, raising my voice over the sound of the shower, letting it crack like a whip.
He flinches. Tears shimmer in the corners of his eyes, falling when he clenches them shut, frustration and humiliation and need all tangled together.
“Say it,” I demand again, moving behind him and bending closer so he can feel my breath on his shoulder blade. “You want me to give you what you’ve been begging your fist for all this time?”
