"From you, all of it." I can barely breathe.
He strokes through the wetness, slow and maddening. His fingers explore without urgency, parting, circling, learning. My inner walls flutter, desperate for something to grip.
I try to push back against his hand but there's no leverage. I'm trapped at his mercy.
"You take what I give you." His voice drops. "Nothing more."
His fingers find my clit and circle.
My hips jerk. The pressure builds fast and sharp, spreading outward, tightening everything, in my nipples, my throat, the arches of my feet. I'm climbing faster than I ever have.
Close. So close. Right there.
His hand disappears.
"No—please—"
"Not yet."
His hand rests on my lower back, warm and still, while my clit throbs with the ache of almost. I can't even grip the sheets. My fingers flex uselessly behind my back.
Behind me, fabric rustling. His shirt over his head. Then his belt, the slide of leather through loops. Zipper lowering.
He adjusts behind me and his hands return to the rope at my wrists, gripping.
The head of him presses against my entrance. One breath. Two.
He enters me in one stroke.
I cry out. He's so deep he's everywhere, and the stretch burns, borders on too much. My inner walls grip him reflexively, trying to adjust, but the position leaves me nowhere to go. Nothing to do but take him.
He uses the rope to pull me back onto him, again and again. Each thrust deliberate, the slap of skin obscene in the quiet room.
"Color?"
"Green—fuck—green—"
He sets a rhythm that is relentless. Every thrust hits that spot inside me, the one that makes my toes curl and my breath stutter. I'm building again, inner muscles gripping him, heat winding tighter between my hips.
"Please. Cole, I need—"
"Not yet." He doesn't move. He stays buried inside me, thick and pulsing, and waits.
I sob. The ache radiates through my pelvis, my thighs, my spine. My clit throbs in time with my heartbeat. So close it hurts.
He does this three more times. Maybe four. I lose count.
Each time, right at the edge. Each time, he stops and waits, stays buried inside me while I breathe through the desperate, clawing need. My thighs shake so hard the tremors run up myspine. Sweat slicks my lower back, the crease of my thighs. My core muscles ache from clenching around him.
Methodical. Even now.He's taking me apart the way he plans operations — patient, precise, every move calculated to break me exactly where he wants.
"Good girl. You can take more."
Tears slide sideways across my cheek. Too much sensation, too much intensity, too much him.
I can't—I can't—
I could say mercy. He would stop.