“Three,” I say.
Nathaniel’s throat works as he swallows. His voice turns lower:
“Three, huh?”
My heart kicks. Hard.
I don’t look away.
“Yes.”
That single word changes everything.
Because he steps forward like I pulled a trigger. I gasp softly, and he steps between my knees.
“You should be scared of me,” he murmurs. “It’s not even a threat. It’s a fact.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I’m not.”
His thumb strokes once over the side of my neck. “Then you’re too turned on to think straight.”
He’s right. The wetness is obscene now, pooling, hot, dripping slowly down the inside of my thighs. I want to grind against anything. It could be his thigh, the mattress, his hand, whatever. But I stay still.
He watches me tremble.
“Stand,” he orders.
My legs shake as I obey. Heat pulses between them, slick and needy.
“Lie down.”
I do, breath shallow, watching him with wide, hungry eyes as he kneels beside the bed and pulls something from beneath it.
A kit.
It’s just cold metal, straps, alcohol wipes, coils of thin rope, instruments I can’t name. Looks like Nathaniel in a box. Shouldn’t turn me on, but does.
“This,” he says quietly, “is why you should be scared.”
My pussy clenches so hard I whimper.
He leans over me, bracing one hand beside my head.
“Do you trust me?” he asks.
“Yes.”
His composure snaps cleanly back into place. He shifts his weight and slides one hand up my thigh.
Not to my pussy.
Just close enough that I feel the heat of his fingers brushing near where I’m soaked.
“Good girl,” he says softly.
My breath breaks.
His fingertips trail higher, grazing the slick on my skin, smearing it upward.
