There's a certain power in the suffering, though. A control that goes beyond the physical. It's not just about denying release; it's about choosing the denial. About mastering my own desire even as it threatens to consume me.
I wonder if she understands that yet. If she realizes that what's happening between us isn't just about sex or attraction or even the forbidden thrill of crossing professional boundaries. It's about surrender and control. About finding the perfect balance between giving and taking. About trust.
Trust I haven't earned yet. Not after a week of treating her like she was invisible.
Another shift in position, another sharp intake of breath as the head of my cock brushes against the sheet. My thighs tense involuntarily, my body fighting against the restraint I'm imposing on it. The dull ache in my balls is becoming harder to ignore, a constant reminder of how easy it would be to give in.
One stroke. That's all it would take. One quick, rough stroke and I could find relief. Could finally let go of this tension that'sbeen building since I first saw her in that club, that green dress clinging to every curve I've been trying to forget.
But where's the victory in that? Where's the satisfaction?
No, the real prize is in the waiting. In the anticipation. In knowing that when I finally allow myself—allow us both—to have what we want, it will be even more intense for having been denied.
My phone sits on the nightstand, its dark screen a temptation almost as strong as the one between my legs. I reach for it before I can stop myself. The screen illuminates at my touch.
Three taps and I'm looking at her contact information. I took her number from her personnel file after that night at her apartment, telling myself it was for professional reasons. A lie I didn't even believe as I was saying it.
My thumb hovers over the messaging icon, aching to make contact just like every other part of me. Instead, I set the phone down before I do something stupid. Like call her. Like tell her to come over. Like beg her to put us both out of this misery.
That's not how this works.
I close my eyes again, surrendering to the memories that refuse to leave me alone. Mia's body pressed between mine and the brick wall. The heat of her skin beneath my palms. The way she arched into my touch, seeking more contact. The soft, desperate sounds she made when I teased her.
My cock throbs painfully in response, and I turn onto my stomach, pressing my face into the pillow to muffle a groan. The pressure of the mattress against my erection is both torture and relief, and for a moment, I consider rocking my hips, seeking friction without technically breaking my self-imposed rule.
But that would be cheating. And I don't cheat. Not when the stakes are this high.
Instead, I roll onto my back again, kick off the tangled sheets, and let the cool air of the bedroom wash over myoverheated skin. My cock stands rigid against my stomach, a bead of pre-cum glistening in the dim light. I stare at it, at the physical manifestation of my desire for her, and find a perverse satisfaction in my own suffering.
This is the price I'm willing to pay for what's to come. For the moment when I finally have her beneath me, when I finally taste her, finally feel her body yield to mine. When I watch her come undone undermycontrol.
It will be worth it. This sleepless night. This ache that seems to reach into my very bones. This torture of my own making.
Tomorrow, I'll text her. Tomorrow, I'll set the next stage of this game in motion. But tonight? Tonight is about the wait. About the want. About the exquisite agony of anticipation.
Hours to go until dawn. Until I can reasonably claim this night of self-inflicted torment is over. Until I can move forward with whatever this is becoming between Mia and me.
I can wait. I can suffer. I can control this hunger that threatens to devour me from the inside out.
Because when I finally give in it will be perfect. It will be earned. It will be exactly what we both need.
And that, more than any momentary pleasure, is worth the wait.
Chapter 17
Mia
Iwake up with my body on fire. The space between my legs pulses with an insistent, maddening ache that even my dreams couldn't satisfy. Pressing my thighs together, a whimper escapes before I can trap it behind my teeth. My hand twitches toward the waistband of my sleep shorts before I remember his command.
"Fuck you, Sebastian Walker," I mutter into my pillow, even as I obediently withdraw. The obedience infuriates me almost as much as the throbbing between my thighs. Since when do I follow orders like this? Since when does arrogance and domination turn me on instead of pissing me off?
Since Sebastian cornered me in that alley and kissed me like his life depended on it. Since he looked at me with those dark eyes and told me I wasn't allowed to come without him.
I flip onto my back, staring at the ceiling as my body continues its mutiny against my brain. The rational part of me—the part that went to medical school and graduated top of her class and doesn't take shit from anybody—is screaming that this is ridiculous. That I should get myself off just to spite him. That Ishouldn't be lying here aching for a man who's been nothing but cruel to me for days.
But the rest of me? The rest of me remembers the way his hand felt on my hip. The taste of whiskey on his tongue. The rough edge in his voice when he said he’d ruin me slowly.
I press the heels of my palms against my eyes until I see stars. "Get it together, Mia," I tell myself, kicking off the sheets and forcing myself to sit up. My nipples tighten against the thin fabric of my tank top as the cool morning air hits them. Every nerve ending in my body feels raw and exposed, like my skin's been turned inside out.
