She’s breathing through it, thinking about her answer.
“Maybe.”
The second strike is harder than the first.
She makes a yelp I’ll be thinking about for the next three days. Her hips shift backward, toward me, the involuntary response she hasn’t learned to suppress yet.
“We’ll see,” I say against the back of her neck, “whether you still feel that way when I’m done with you.”
I position myself and push inside her in one motion.
The whimper she lets out goes through me. I pull, tilting her head back, watching her face in the mirror. Her mouth open. Her eyes half-closed.
I move, pulling her hair harder. Her spine arches.
“Do you want to come?”
“Yes.” Immediately. Breathless. Then, like she’s remembered she’s supposed to be negotiating, with a harder edge: “Yes.”
“Then apologize.”
Silence.
Her hands tighten on the vanity.
My hand slides around to the front of her and finds the precise location. Her entire body responds. I feel her clench around me, the sharp exhale, the way her hips angle to chase the sensation.
I stop.
Pure frustration escapes her mouth. Low, private, and absolutely devastating.
I bring my palm down again.
She gasps. Her hair is still in my fist. Her eyes find mine in the mirror. I hold her gaze and wait.
“We can stay here all night,” I say. Conversational. “It’s not an inconvenience to me.”
Her jaw sets. I watch her decide whether her pride is worth more than what I’m withholding. I already know the answer.
I bring my hand forward again and let her feel it. I take it away before she comes.
A half moan, half gasp, more desperate. Her forehead drops toward the mirror. “Rolan.”
“The word,” I say.
Another silence. Shorter this time.
“I’m sorry.” Quiet. “For disobeying you.”
“Are you going to do it again?”
She shakes her head. The motion pulls against my grip on her hair.
“Say it.”
“No.” A breath. “No, I won’t.”
“Ask me.”
