Two fingertips against the center of my pussy.
The sensation is so acute that my vision blurs and a whimper escapes my throat.
The mask cracks. A tightening of his jaw. A darkening of his eyes. And then a smile.
The smile that says he received the answer to his question.
“You’re soaked.”
I close my eyes. Shame floods through me, hot, total, a full-body blush that starts at my chest and climbs to my hairline.
“Say it again,” he says.
“I’m sorry.”
“Like you mean it.”
His fingers move. Not the light, exploratory touch from before — a direct, purposeful stroke. I fight the urge to shudder.
“I’m — I’m sorry?—”
“That’s a good girl.”
His finger pushes inside me in a single, fluid motion that fills me so completely that the air I try to pull in isn’t there.
My back arches.
He uses the other hand to spread my knees wider. The pressure of his palm against the inside of my thigh is warm and powerfulas he opens me to him completely.
He builds it slowly. His finger working with patience.
When I gasp, he slows. When my breathing evens, he deepens. He’s conducting me, drawing the response out, extending it, pushing me toward the edge.
Higher.
Closer.
My thighs are shaking. My hands are white on the counter. The edge is right there — right there — I feel it building, feel the gathering heat, feel the peak?—
He stops.
His finger goes still inside me.
“No—” The word escapes before I can catch it.
“No, what?” he asks. As if his finger isn’t buried in my pussy. As if I’m not shaking on his counter with my legs open and my pride on the floor next to my shorts.
I press my lips together and close my eyes. I will not say it. I will not give him the words he craves. He’s taken enough of my composure, my dignity. He doesn’t get the words, too.
“Are you being a naughty?”
His finger moves again. Slowly. Rebuilding what he dismantled.
“Fuck,” I gasp, a raspy whisper.
“Very naughty…”
Higher. Higher. The edge again. The gathering. The almost?—
