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“Then you’re going to have to ask nicely.”

“I don’t beg.”

“Everyone begs eventually.” His thumb dragged slowly and deliberately across my lip. “The question is whether you’ll do it before or after I make you come so hard you forget your own name.”

My breath hitched. Arousal coiled tight and vicious in my belly, and I hated how much I wanted him to follow through on the threat.

“You’re an asshole,” I whispered.

“So I’ve been told.” His hand dropped from my face, sliding down the front of my jacket, over my ribs, stopping just above my hip. “But you’re still standing here. Still letting me touch you. Still hoping I’ll do more than talk.”

“I’m not⁠—”

“Liar.” His fingers found the edge of my skirt, slipping beneath the fabric to trace the bare skin of my thigh. “Tell me to stop, and I will. Tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll walk away right now.”

The choice hung between us, sharp and undeniable.

I could end this. Could tell him no and mean it, and he would let me go.

But the truth was darker than that.

I wanted him to keep going. I wanted to know what it felt like to surrender to something I couldn’t control, just for a moment, just long enough to feel alive again.

“Don’t stop,” I said quietly.

His smile turned feral and predatory. “Good girl.”

Then his hand slid higher, fingers brushing against the damp fabric of my underwear, and I gasped.

“Fuck, you’re soaked.” His voice dropped into something rough and hungry. “How long have you been like this? Since you walked in? Since you saw me on the balcony? Or did it start the moment that thing started using your voice?”

“Shut up,” I managed, my hips shifting involuntarily toward his touch.

“Make me.” He pushed the fabric aside, his fingers sliding through my wetness with agonizing slowness. “Or better yet, tell me what you want me to do to you.”

“Touch me.”

“I am touching you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Say it.” His thumb circled my clit, light and teasing, not nearly enough pressure. “Use your words, little flower. Tell me exactly what you want.”

“I want—” My breath caught as he pressed harder, sending a jolt of pleasure straight through me. “I want your fingers inside me.”

“There we go.” He pushed one finger inside, slow and deliberate, watching my face the entire time. “Was that so hard?”

I couldn’t answer. My head fell back against the wall, my hands gripping his shoulders for balance as he added a second finger and began to move. The stretch was perfect, maddeningly controlled, and every thrust sent heat spiraling higher.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his mouth beside my ear. “So desperate. So fucking beautiful when you stop pretending you don’t want this.”

“I hate you,” I gasped.

“No, you don’t.” His thumb found my clit again, circling in time with the movement of his fingers. “You hate that you want me. That’s different.”

He was right, and I hated that too.

Pleasure built fast and viciously, tightening every muscle and stealing my breath. I was close—so close I could feel its sharp, inevitable edge.