His fingers moved deep and steady, curling to find the place that made my body jolt. When I twisted, searching for leverage,his other hand clamped at my hip, holding me exactly where he wanted me.
I moaned, raw and unguarded.
He laughed, a short huff against my leg. “That’s what I thought. You like it when someone else is in control.”
His rhythm didn’t change—slow, deliberate, building the pressure higher and higher. He worked my clit in precise circles, the sensation spooling until the edge crept closer.
Just as I started to tip, he eased off. The friction vanished.
I gasped, chasing it.
He did it again—building, holding, then backing away at the last second—keeping me suspended there, open and desperate for what he wouldn’t give.
It was exquisite torture, and every time he denied me, the need got sharper, more ragged, until I was choking on it.
“Please.” My voice was shredded, but he only worked me harder, relentlessly.
“Not until you ask properly,” Luka said, mouth grazing my thigh. The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. “Tell me what you need. Make me believe you.”
Shame burned up my neck, but I couldn’t have lied if I’d tried. “Please, Luka,” I gasped. “Let me come. I need it—fuck, I need it—please?—”
Something in my voice must have shifted, because Luka’s entire body braced, and he moved his hand from my hip to my throat—not squeezing, just holding, steady and inescapable. His other hand drove deep. The pressure, the friction, the precise, merciless circle of his thumb—there was no bracing for it.
I shattered.
The release tore through me from the base of my spine, violent and consuming. My back arched, legs locking around his shoulders, the world collapsing to the raw pulse of being completely undone. I keened his name—broken and unfiltered—and he held me there, fingers unyielding, his grip firm at my throat until the last tremor passed.
When he finally stilled, my whole body echoed with the need to scream or sob or bite something, but I just lay there—every muscle liquefied, every synapse shot—struggling to piece myself back together.
He released my throat—this time gently, tracing the column of my neck before pulling away.
Luka rose while my body still hummed, and he crossed to the marble-topped minibar. He ran the tap, sleeves pushed to his forearms, scrubbing my scent from his fingers. In the mirror, I watched his shoulders flex as he shook the water away and dried his hands on a square of white hotel linen.
He settled into the club chair by the window, legs spread, posture loose. Only his eyes were alert, fixed on me, sharpening as he lifted two fingers in a small beckoning motion.
He didn’t speak.
Then he snapped his fingers.
The sound hit low in my stomach. I should have flinched, should have bristled at the command, but instead something in me hollowed out. I slid from the bed, skin damp and prickling, legs unsteady as I walked to him.
“Kneel.”
The carpet licked at my knees as I dropped, awkward, at his feet.
He tipped my chin up with one knuckle. The touch was firm, testing—waiting to see whether I’d pull back.
I didn’t.
“You’re so pretty when you obey.” His voice was so low I felt it more than heard it.
He pressed my head down against his thigh with an easy, proprietary weight, fingers threading into my hair. The pull at my scalp lit up every raw nerve he’d spent the last hourstripping raw. My cheek rested against the denim, the crease at his hip warm, carrying a faint trace of tobacco and detergent. He held me there—immobilized, exposed, and so fiercely claimed it made my lungs burn.
He stroked my damp auburn hair in slow, hypnotic passes, easing out the tangles. Sometimes, he scraped his nails along my scalp, and the sensation rippled through me—soothing, electric, and somehow arousing all at once.
I could have stayed there forever, but the heat was building between my legs again, a deep, restless ache that had nowhere to go. I shifted, pressing closer, nuzzling the hard, heavy line beneath the denim.
I hooked my fingers in his belt, but Luka clamped a hand in my hair and yanked my head back.