The grit in his voice moved me before I could think. I slid off the couch, palms flat on the cold hardwood. Knees down, hips lifted.
“Crawl to me.”
I hesitated only a second. Then I inched forward, hands and knees scraping across the floor. My hair fell forward, hiding my face as I closed the distance between us.
He didn’t speak. Just watched.
By the time I reached him, I was kneeling between his boots. His legs were spread, his black jeans straining tight across the crotch. Waiting.
I stilled, hands on my thighs, not touching him, not moving.
He let the moment soak into my skin.
“Look at me.”
I lifted my chin. He cupped the back of my head, fingers tangling in the sweat-soaked nest of my hair, and held me there. He didn’t blink.
“You disobeyed,” he said quietly. “You came without my permission.” A beat. “Greedy cunt. Couldn’t help yourself.”
I tried to speak, but only a rough sound came out. My thighs were still slick. I couldn’t stop shaking beneath his hand.
“Say it,” he said, voice like vodka over ice. “Say you’re a filthy whore who can’t be trusted to follow basic instructions.”
My throat tightened. He gripped my hair and tipped my head back.
“I’m…”
“You what?”
“I’m a filthy whore,” I choked, pulse clawing at my chest. “I can’t be trusted to listen.”
He smiled.
“Good girl.”
The praise slithered through me, dark and wrong and wanted.
He kept his hand on the back of my head, thumb brushing slowly through the damp strands.
“Apologize.”
“I’m sorry,” I blurted, the words scraping raw.
“Do you want a chance to make it up to me?”
“Yes.” The answer came before I could think.
He released my hair, unzipped his jeans, and pulled himself free—long, thick, and already hard. My mouth went dry.
“You want this?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Prove it.”
I leaned in, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. I gripped his thighs, nails biting into the denim, hovering there, waiting.
“Please,” I said, voice rough. “Let me suck your cock.”