“That’s asking,” I say. “And you sound beautiful when you do it.”
I fuck her with my hand, steady and deep, watching her come apart inch by inch. Her legs shake. Her breath stutters.
“Not yet,” I warn when she starts to tighten.
She whines. “Sir?—”
“I said not yet.”
I pull my hand out slowly, and she makes a sound of loss that goes straight through me.
I step between her legs and press myself against her. She feels how hard I am. How controlled.
“You don’t get release just because you want it,” I say. “You get it when I decide you’ve earned it.”
I take her chin in my hand. Chocolate still smudges her lips.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“I trust you.”
That does something dangerous in my chest.
I turn her gently, bend her forward over the island, and spread her again. Her dress is bunched at her waist. Her heels are still on. She looks obscene and perfect. I take the fork, scoop another bite of cake, and drag it slowly along her lower back. She shivers hard.
“So sensitive,” I murmur. “You feel everything, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
I press the fork down first, slow enough that she watches it with parted lips, then I follow with my mouth, licking chocolate from her skin in an unhurried line that makes her moan out loud, the sound slipping past whatever restraint she thought she still had. Her reaction tightens something low in my gut, because she isn’t performing anymore, she’s reacting.
I reach for the remote again and let her see it this time.
“Hold still,” I tell her, my voice calm and unraised, because I don’t need volume to make the point. “If you move, I stop.”
She freezes instantly, muscles locked and trembling, breath coming shallow and fast as she waits to see if I mean it. I always mean it.
I increase the setting just enough to pull a sharp gasp from her chest, and I watch the way her body tightens around the sensation, the way she grips the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
“That’s my girl,” I say quietly, approval threaded through every word. “Taking it, holding it, doing exactly what I asked.”
She’s shaking now, right on the edge, breathing my name into the stone like it might save her, and I lean in close enough that my mouth brushes her ear while I speak.
“You’re not coming yet,” I whisper, slow and certain. “But you’re going to remember this, every second of how it feels to wait for me.”
Her body clenches hard in protest, and I ease the setting down before she tips over, because control is only good if I keep it. I straighten and step back, letting the distance hit her.
“Stand up.”
She does, careful and unsteady, and I take my time fixing her dress, smoothing the fabric, adjusting her hair, and wiping the last trace of chocolate from her mouth with a napkin like I didn’t just pull her apart on my kitchen counter.
I cup her face and make her look at me.
“You’re doing beautifully,” I tell her, steady and honest. “And I’m nowhere near finished.”