Wouldn't.
His hand slid lower. Found the edge of my jeans.
"Tell me what you need."
The command was wrapped in velvet but edged with steel.
I hated that I wanted more. Hated that my hips rolled forward seeking friction I shouldn't crave. Hated that when his fingers finally—finally—found where I burned hottest, I gasped his name like a prayer.
I wouldn't say anything wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of my jeans, dragging them down my thighs with infuriating ease. The cool air hit my bare skin, and I jerked back—but his grip on my wrist was iron.
"Be a good girl," he murmured, already shifting beneath me, adjusting himself with one hand while the other yanked me forward. "Sit on my face."
My stomach twisted. "You're sick."
He only smirked, dark and knowing, before pulling me down hard. My knees hit the tile on either side of his head, my breath leaving me in a sharp gasp as his hands locked around my thighs. I tried to push away, but his fingers dug in—bruising, unyielding.
"Gideon—stop?—"
His tongue dragged up the inside of my thigh, slow and deliberate, and my traitorous body arched into the touch before I could stop it. A shudder ran through me, humiliation and heat twisting together in my gut.
"Fight all you want," he murmured against my skin, his breath hot. "But you’re going to come for me."
I clenched my jaw, my nails digging into his shoulders as I tried to leverage myself away. But he was stronger. Always stronger. His grip tightened, his mouth finding me with cruel precision, and my hips jerked despite myself.
A broken sound tore from my throat—not protest, not surrender, but something raw and desperate in between. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, but he only groaned, the vibration sending another jolt through me.
I hated him. I hated that I couldn’t stop. I hated that when his tongue did that again, my back bowed and my breath came in ragged gasps.
"Such a good girl," he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. "Now let me hear you."
His mouth was relentless.
I clenched my teeth, nails digging into his shoulders, trying to hold back the sound building in my throat. My body betrayed me—arching, trembling, wanting—when I should have been shoving him away. His tongue moved in ways that made my vision blur, slow and deliberate, like he’d memorized every place I was weak.
Then his finger slid inside me.
I jerked, a broken noise escaping before I could stop it. How?—?
He knew exactly where to press, exactly how to curl his fingers to make my hips stutter against his mouth. My thighs shook, my breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. I hated the way my body responded, the way my muscles tightened around him, the way my back bowed despite every instinct screaming at me to resist.
His free hand gripped my hip, holding me down as I tried to pull away. "I need to stretch your pussy out," he murmured against me, his voice rough with satisfaction. "You won't be able to take my cock."
I couldn’t.
I wouldn’t.
But my body didn’t care.
His fingers curled inside me, stretching, twisting, and my body betrayed me completely. A broken sound clawed its way out of my throat—not pleasure, not protest, but something ugly and needy that I couldn’t swallow back down.
You won’t fit my cock.
The words should’ve made me recoil. Should’ve snapped me back to sanity. Instead, my hips rolled forward, chasing the pressure, the burn, the way his fingers filled me just enough to make me ache for more.
His tongue didn’t stop. Relentless. Knowing. Like he’d memorized every inch of me in the dark, like he’d spent years learning exactly how to unravel me.
