But I can't.
Fuck.
I unbutton my pants. The relief of releasing some of the pressure is immediate, but not nearly enough. I should stop, take that cold shower, and forget this ever happened.
Instead, I push my trousers and boxer briefs down just enough to free my cock.
It's hard and heavy in my hand. The head is flushed red, slick with pre-cum and leaking more. I'm so worked up from kissing her that I know this won't take long.
I wrap my hand around myself and stroke once, slowly. The sensation makes me groan. I’m pierced from root to tip, all the way up my shaft, and the feeling of the metal moving in my skin against my oversensitive length as I manipulate it in my hand is so fucking good. I wonder what the look on her face would have been, if she’d seen it. If I’d gotten my cock out and let her see everything that I have for her to play with.
If I’d silenced my little brat with a mouthful of metal and cock, and then fucked her until she came all over me.
Not mine.But God, she is right now. She’s under my roof, locked in my house, compliant to my whims. And there are so many fucking things I want to do to her. I think about her mouth, the way it felt under mine, soft and warm and yielding. The way she opened for me without hesitation. The way her tongue slid against mine like she'd been thinking about kissing me as much as I'd been thinking about kissing her.
I stroke again, faster this time. My grip is tight, almost too tight, but I need the pressure. I think about the small sound she made when I pressed my hips forward. That gasping moan that went straight to my cock. The way she didn't pull away. The way she pressed closer instead, like she wanted to feel how hard I was for her. My hand moves faster. The friction is good but it's not enough. It's not her hand. Not her mouth. Not her body.
I think about what would have happened if I hadn't stopped. If I'd kept kissing her. If I'd slid my hand under her shirt andfelt her bare skin. If I'd cupped her breast and felt her nipple, stiff against my palm. Would she have let me? Would she have stopped me or would she have arched into my touch and asked for more? The thought makes my cock pulse in my hand.
I imagine stripping that shirt off her and seeing what she looks like underneath. I imagine her skin—smooth and warm and perfect. I imagine my hand on her throat as my other hand guides her mouth onto my cock, feeling it tighten as she chokes on me.
My breathing is getting ragged. My hand is moving faster, my grip tighter, chasing the release that's building at the base of my spine. My balls are tight, my cock throbbing. I’m as wet as if I’d been in her mouth, in her pussy, there’s so much pre-cum. More than I can ever remember there being before.
I wonder how fucking wet she was, from that kiss. From feeling my cock up against her, how hard I was—am—for her. I could feel the way she responded to me, the way her body pressed against mine like she couldn't get close enough. How soaked she would have gotten my fingers if I pushed them into her. I could have put her on the bed, on her back, so I could fuck her mouth and finger her pussy at the same time. Hear her moan while she choked on my pierced dick. I imagine the sound she'd make when I touched her there. That gasping moan but deeper, more desperate. I imagine her hands clutching at my shoulders, her nails digging in, her hips rocking against my hand.
"Fuck," I breathe into the darkness.
My hand is moving fast now, rough. The way I'd touch her if I had her in this bed. The way I'd make her come apart before I even got inside her. I imagine sliding my fingers inside her, feeling how tight she is, how hot. I imagine the way she'd clench around me. The way she'd say my name. I think about what it would feel like to be inside her. To feel her wrapped around my cock instead of my hand. To feel her nails on my back andher legs around my hips and her mouth on my neck. Feel her gasping as she took inch after inch, one piercing at a time. I bet she’s never had a cock like mine. I’d make her take everything I have to give. I wouldn’t stop until I heard her scream my name.
The thought of her screaming my name, that sound on her bratty tongue, is what breaks me.
My whole body goes tense as I come, spilling over my hand and onto my stomach, the release so intense it's almost painful. Spurt after spurt splashes onto my fist and my abs as I drag my shirt up to keep it from getting soaked, wave after wave of it, longer than usual. More intense than it has any right to be from just my hand.
When it finally subsides, I'm left breathing hard, my heart pounding, my hand still wrapped around my softening cock.
The clarity that comes after feels brutal, just as intense as the pleasure from before.
I just got myself off thinking about a woman I'm holding captive. A woman I have no right to touch. A woman who's supposed to go home in less than two days.
I should feel guilty, disgusted with myself.
Instead, I just feel restless, as if the orgasm wasn’t enough. It eased the pressure enough for me to think again, but not enough for me to stop feeling agitated and restless.
I clean myself up mechanically, wash my hands, and fix my clothing. But the tension doesn't leave. If anything, it's worse now. Like scratching an itch and only making it burn more.
I need to clear my head. I need to focus on something other than her.
My throat feels dry, and I decide to head down to the kitchen to get some water. The mansion is mostly quiet. There’s no meetings happening right now, and everyone else here is busy with their own tasks. The hallway is empty as I head down thestairs, down to the second floor. I’ll have to pass her room again, and I grit my teeth, forcing myself not to think about it.
I should be thinking about Volkov. About the territory dispute. About the fact that I have a war brewing and I'm distracted by a woman who should mean nothing.
Instead, I'm thinking about the way her hands felt in my hair. The way she pulled just hard enough to make me growl. The way she didn't back down even when I crowded her against the desk.
I reach the kitchen and pour myself water from the tap, then drink it standing at the sink, staring out the window at the dark grounds. This is a problem. She's a problem.
She’ll be gone in two days. I tell myself that, forcing myself to believe it. That her father isn’t jerking me around, that I’m not going to be forced to decide whether or not to shoot a woman who had her tongue wrapped around mine less than an hour ago. A woman I just jerked off to and came harder than I have in years. Maybe fucking ever.
That complicates things. As if they aren’t fucking complicated enough.
