“Mario,” I gasp, my hands flying back to grip his thighs. “I’m going to…”
“No,” he says, his voice firm.
He slows his movements, gentling his touch, pulling me back from the brink.
I cry out in frustration, a desperate, needy sound. “You said you wouldn't stop!"
“I haven't,” he says, and I can hear the amusement in his voice. “But you will not come until I say you can.”
His words are a shock, a jolt of electricity that is both infuriating and intensely arousing.
“You can’t be serious,” I pant.
He laughs. A wicked sound that vibrates through my entire body.
“Oh, I am very serious.”
I look at him in the mirror, at the dark, dominant look in his eyes, and I know he is not bluffing.
He is going to make me wait.
He is going to make me beg.
The thought of it is so potent, so overwhelming, that it brings me closer to the edge than his fingers ever could.
The idea of him controlling my pleasure, of him being the one to decide when I can fall apart, is a drug. A powerful, addictive drug.
I've never been with a man who would do this. I've never been with a man I would let do this.
With Mario, it feels right.
It feels inevitable.
“You’re a bastard,” I breathe, but there is no heat in my words.
All he says is: “You are going to come so hard for me.” He kisses the tender spot behind my ear. “When I am good and ready.”
He starts the rhythm again. The stroke of his fingers on my sensitive skin. He builds me up again, higher and higher, until I am a trembling, whimpering mess, my body strung so tight I feel like I might shatter.
I am so close.
Just a little more.
Just a little…
“Not yet,” he says, and again, he slows down, pulling me back from the edge.
I sob, a raw, broken sound.
“Please, Mario,” I beg. “Please.”
“No.”
He does it again.
And again.
He brings me to the brink of ecstasy three more times, only to deny me the release I so desperately crave. Each denial makes the pleasure more intense, the need more desperate.
