"Again."
"Nathan."
His mouth replaced his finger. His tongue was hot and skilled, circling my clit, pressing inside me, learning the places that made me moan and the places that made me scream. Iarched against him, my bound hands pulling at the headboard, the leather creaking with every movement.
"Please," I said. "Please, Nathan—"
"Please what?"
"Please don't stop."
He laughed against me—a low, dark sound that vibrated through my body. "I'm not going to stop. I'm going to make you come so hard you forget your own name. But not yet. Not until you beg."
He worked me with his mouth and his hands—two fingers inside me, curving, finding the spot that made me see stars. I was close. So close. I could feel the orgasm building at the base of my spine, coiling like a snake, ready to strike.
But he pulled back every time I got near. Slowed down. Changed the rhythm. Kept me on the edge, trembling and desperate.
"Beg," he said.
"I can't—"
"Then I can't let you come."
Tears pricked at my eyes. I was so full, so close, so desperate for release that I would have said anything. Done anything.
"Please," I whispered. "Please let me come. I'll do anything. I'll be anything. Just—please—"
He kissed me. Soft, almost tender. "That's my good girl."
He pressed his thumb against my clit and pushed his fingers deep inside me, and I shattered.
The orgasm ripped through me like a wave, pulling me under, drowning me in pleasure so intense I couldn't breathe. I screamed—his name, I think, or maybe just sound—and my body convulsed around his hand, around his fingers, around the overwhelming sensation of falling apart.
He didn't stop. He worked me through it, drawing out every shudder, every gasp, every tear that slid down my cheeks.
When I finally came back to myself, he was watching me. His eyes were dark, his lips wet, his chest heaving.
"That was one," he said. "You're going to come again. On my cock."
He untied my wrists—quick, efficient, the belt sliding free. I was too weak to move. Too weak to do anything but lie there and watch him strip off his trousers, his boxers, the last barriers between us.
His cock was thick and hard, curving toward his stomach. I wanted it inside me. I wanted it more than I'd ever wanted anything.
He rolled a condom on—from his pocket, prepared, because he'd known this would happen—and positioned himself between my legs.
"Look at me," he said.
I looked.
He pushed inside me in one smooth stroke. No hesitation. No waiting. Just the sudden, overwhelming fullness of him filling me completely.
I screamed. The sound was muffled by his hand—his palm pressing against my mouth, his fingers digging into my cheek.
"Quiet," he hissed. "Do you want the whole house to hear?"
I bit his palm. He groaned and started to move.
The pace he set was brutal. Hard and fast and deep, the headboard slamming against the wall, the bed frame groaning beneath us. He fucked me like he hated me—like he loved me—like he couldn't decide which was worse.
