Because I needed him to know I would never touch himwithout his permission. I craved his consent more than I craved coming.
I tilted my head back slightly, exposing my throat without thinking, my mouth parting as I looked up at him through my lashes.
“Tell me what you want,” I said, my voice rough. “Or I won’t touch you.”
For a second, he didn’t answer. He just looked at me, and, I thought he wouldn’t respond. That he would change his mind.
His gaze dragged over me slowly, deliberately taking in every inch of me kneeling there in front of him. My pulse kicked harder, my fingers pressing into my thighs as I held still under it, forcing myself not to move, not to reach for him without being told. My cock was so hard, leaking precum onto the tiles.
“Look at you,” he murmured, almost to himself, but I heard the discovery in his voice. The discovery that he held so much power over me. “All that strength…all that power and you’re going to kneel there and wait for my permission?”
“Yes,” I answered, too quickly for my response to be anything but embarrassing, but I didn’t take it back. I didn’t want to take it back. There were already so many lies and so much distrust between us that I didn’t want him to have any doubt about what this was. About my craving for him.
“Use your hands first,” he said, voice calm, controlled. “Slow. I don’t want you rushing through it like you’re desperate.”
I swallowed, nodding once before I moved, tentatively tracing my fingertip down the most prominent vein. I touched him exactly like he told me. Carefully. Lightly. Sweat popped up on my forehead, and my breathing turned ragged as I fought with my self-control to give him whatheneeded.
I took my time, letting my hands do the work, aware ofevery shift in his breathing, every small reaction I could pull from him with the stroke of a hand. I watched him the whole time, searching his face, needing to see it—needing to know I was doing it right.
That he liked it.
That he wanted me there.
But the longer I stayed like that, the harder it got to keep control. He was right there. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell him, hear the slight hitch in his breath when I cupped his balls and squeezed gently.
It wasn’t enough.
It stopped being enough too quickly.
My restraint slipped. I leaned in without thinking, chasing more, wanting more than what he’d given me permission for. My lips had barely kissed the tip of his dick when he fisted his hand in my hair.
“Easy.”
My head was pulled back, not violently, but firmly enough to stop me in place. Firm enough for him to assert his dominance. That one act drew a sharp breath from my lungs, my eyes snapping back up to his.
Fuck.
The pressure in my chest intensified, and heat flooded my groin. My lips parted, and a whine I would be embarrassed about later bubbled up from my throat. His grip didn’t loosen in my hair. If anything, it lingered and tightened, holding me away from him with his cock dangling just above my mouth, teasing me, torturing me.
“Who would have guessed you’re actually a greedy cock slut?” He rubbed the thumb of his free hand over my lips, then slipped it into my mouth. I barely gave it a lick, and he popped his thumb out.
Why was he denying me like this? My cock was so hard it was painful.
“Open up, dollface, but stay still. I get to take your mouth the way I want. Got that?”
“Y-yes, sir.” The words were scraped raw and raspy from my throat.
Leo guided his cock between my waiting lips, tentatively, as though testing my restraint. Only a couple of inches in, and he pulled out, leaving me with that humiliating whining sound in my chest again.
“Let me see your tongue.”
I pushed my tongue out, and he slapped me there with his cock—once—twice—hard enough to make the muscle begin to go numb. Then he locked his hands behind my head and shoved his cock down my throat, making me choke.
“Uh-uh, you don’t get to move,” he said, and I kept still, breathing hard through my nostrils and drooling all over his cock as I clung to my gag reflex as best as I could.
“That’s it. I know you can be good for me, can’t you, dollface?”
I was torn between wanting him to use my real name and finding a fascination with this nickname he’d come up with for me. When I pictured a doll, it was something dainty and pretty. I was neither, and yet the way he pulled out, then thrust himself to the back of my throat rang true. He was using my mouth like an inanimate object—like a sex toy. A sex doll.
