My breath catches. Every cell in me leans toward him, desperate, hungry for the mercy of his touch. I imagine his hands, his warmth, his absolution. I imagine him ending this exquisite ache he’s built in me.
But he doesn’t touch me.
Instead, silence descends. The kind that punishes. The kind that turns longing into need.
I shift, helpless to see that he is not doing what I think he is, but his voice halts me mid-breath.
“Don’t.”
My body obeys before my mind can even think to resist. The command roots me, humbles me.
“What are you doing?” My voice trembles. And that’s when I hear it, the faint, rhythmic sound of him stroking himself, just beyond my reach. Desperation rises. “Please, Sir… let me see you. Let me…”
“No.” His tone is soft, but it’s absolute. “You haven’t earned the privilege.”
The words slice through me.
“Please,” I whisper, my voice unrecognizable, frayed with want. “Let me… I’ll be good. I’ll be a good girl.”
The silence that follows is unbearable. And then I understand, this is the lesson. The denial. The not-touching. The not-being-allowed. And I hate it… God, I hate it, because I want.
I want to be the one who pleases him.
I want to be the reason he makes those sounds, those low, ruined grunts that live somewhere between pleasure and possession. I want to be the one who earns them. I want, I want, I want, until wanting feels like all I am.
I can feel his eyes on me, watching me struggle with every ounce of restraint I have. His breathing gets ragged, each sound he makes fueling the fire building within me, and I’m right on the edge of begging again when he finally groans, the sound raw and unrestrained, leaving me trembling, yearning, as he takes his time putting himself back together.
At last, he steps forward, undoing the restraints and catching me as I sag against him. His touch shifts immediately from commanding to gentle as he brings me over to the bed and lowers me onto it. I try to push him away, but I’m too weak, and he doesn’t let me. Every part of me is trembling and hollowed out from wanting him so much. There’s a sting behind my eyes, a soft ache that has nothing to do with pain. I don’t even mean to speak; it just slips out. “I hated that.”
He exhales, and for a moment, I think he might laugh. But he doesn’t. Instead, he cups the back of my neck and pulls me closer until my forehead rests against his. “I know,” he says. “I know, Peach.”
We spend a few minutes like that, forehead to forehead, sharing air, neither of us speaking because words aren’t needed. It’s enough just to breathe him in, to feel his chest rise against my palm.
He pulls back and disappears for a moment. When he returns, he’s holding a small bottle of ointment and twisting open the cap. He kneels beside me.
“Lean forward,” he says. I do. My body obeys without thought, surrendering to his gentleness. His hands, once so commanding, are now worshipful as he spreads the cool balm over my skin.
He traces the marks he’s left with aching care, his fingertips lingering over each one as if committing them to memory. Each touch feels like heaven.
When he’s finished, we end up tangled together in bed, my body curved around his. His warmth seeps into me until I can’t tell where I end and he begins.
His breath grazes my temple when he finally speaks. “You were perfect,” he murmurs. A pause, then softer, closer… “I’m so proud of you, Peach. So damn proud.”
The words settle deep, deeper than the ache, deeper thanthe want. I melt against him. His arms wrap around me, anchoring me while his thumb draws slow, absentminded circles over my spine. I close my eyes and breathe him in, and somewhere in that quiet, something inside me mends.
“Come to dinner with me,” he says casually. I tense and untangle myself from him, something my body hates instantly. Why do I get to meet his mother before his fiancée? None of this makes sense.
I swallow the question that’s stuck in my throat. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, Cal… it’s…” I start, unsure of how to finish the sentence. It’s wrong? We shouldn’t? This will only complicate things? There are a hundred ways to finish it, but none seem to matter.
“Do this for me,” he says, and his eyes, God, those eyes, are locked on mine with an intensity that feels like he’s pushing straight through every wall I keep trying to build between us. “I want you to meet my mom.”
And just like that, every argument I’ve prepared falls apart. I can’t say no, not when he looks at me like this, with that raw, unguarded honesty that he rarely lets me see. “Fine,” I say, even though every instinct in me is screaming that this might be a bad idea. “But on one condition…” A mischievous smile tugs at my lips. “You let me paint your nails. Pink.”
He rolls his eyes, scoffing. “Absolutely not.”
“Come on, please?” I give him my best pout. “It’ll be cute. We can have matching pink nails.” I hold back a laugh as his expression shifts, struggling between his usual stoic self and the tiniest twitch of a smile.
“I don’t do nail polish.”
