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“Please don’t…”

He tsked at this and reminded me,

“That’s not what I asked of you.”

I couldn’t get it out. My throat wouldn’t work. Not even as my eyes wouldn’t leave his. My whole body had gone so tight it hurt, and he watched all of it happen, still waiting for what he wanted. So, he leaned down even further and demanded in the scariest voice I had heard come from him to date.

“Spread. Your. Legs. Now.”

I forced air into my lungs before nodding slightly, as I did as he asked, giving him better access to me so that his fingers could slip under the wet cotton. And in response I made a sound I’ll no doubt be hearing for the rest of my life.

A raw moan dragged out of me that was unlike anything that had ever escaped my lips before. Because now there was nothing between us at all. His hand was where nobody had put a hand in over three years. A touch I hadn’t felt in so long, I had almost forgotten what it was like but clearly… my body hadn’t. Because it knew the steps to this dance even if I didn’t want to hear the music.

But what was worse was that he didn’t seem to be in a hurry, not in the slightest bit. As if he had all the time in the world to explore me and drive me insane while he did it. It was like he wanted me to get used to it. To the weight of his hand, one he intended to keep there often. But then two thick fingers bent and swiped through my folds, making my breath hitch. The hiss of breath that came from him at what he found drowned out the second moan I couldn’t keep from escaping.

“Bozhe moy.” The foreign words came out of him as if they had been pulled, before dark amusement followed.

“Look at the state of you… fucking soaked for me.”

And he wasn’t wrong, as I was drenched and we both knew it had nothing to do with the shower. Which meant there was no pretending, not with his fingers moving slowly through it. Not with the sound of it in the quiet between the water, and he made sure I heard it. He shifted his hand and did it again just so I’d hear.

“That’s for me,” he said. “Say it isn’t… I fucking dare you,” he challenged in a dark tone and I… well, I said nothing.

“No,” he rumbled, almost gently. “I didn’t think so.”

His thumb found my clit then and started to circle it in agonizingly slow movements. I swear my eyes nearly rolled back, and his other hand tightened at my throat to hold my head where it was. And even that only managed to add to the treacherous pleasure of it all. That was the whole cruelty of it. This unhurried, patient, learning of what made me twitch and then doing that instead, as if he was studying every single thing that made my body respond to him.

The water was running down my face, and yet I couldn’t turn away from him. I couldn’t close my eyes or move my hands, and every single thing I couldn’t do only made it better. Being unable to stop it was shamefully adding to the intensity of what his hands were doing.

“You like this,” he stated like it was a fact. One I tried to deny with the last shred of dignity I possessed.

“No.”

“You’re lying to me,” he said, not in anger but almost fondly.

“Your body has better manners than your mouth does, moya idealnaya kukolka. It doesn’t lie to me like you do… watch,” he forewarned before slowly pushing one finger inside me and I swear, I nearly ignited. I felt every fraction of it, the stretch, the bittersweet give as my own body closed around him as he went. I heard myself sob then and I couldn’t have said whether it was fear or something else because they had stopped being separate things some time ago.

He stopped when he was all the way in.

“Bozhe.” His forehead came down against my temple, and his voice had gone somewhere raw.

“You’re so tight. So tight for me, little bird,” he drew back and pushed in again, once, just as slow. “Do you feel that? Do you feel how you take me, how you welcome me into your warmth?”

“It’s too much,” I whispered, but he tsked down at me.

“It isn’t.” His mouth was at my ear. “You’re going to take a great deal more than this, little one. This is nothing. This is only the beginning.” Then as if to prove this, he added a second finger and I cried out. Because that one hurt, for a second, as a real stretch made me arch up onto my toes. He stopped instantly and held them there and let me have as long as I needed. His other hand stroked my throat, his thumb drawing soothing lines there until I came back down.

“Breathe… breathe for me.”

I breathed, unable to deny him by this point, and my reward was his thumb circling my clit again.

“Good girl. There… Now you have both of them,” he praised, and I heard the sound I made bounce off the tile, but I didn’t care. That was new. Somewhere in the last few minutes, I’d stopped keeping the noises in, and he had noticed.

As if this was all he needed to start moving again. Slow at first, in and out, deep and unhurried, his thumb never once losing its circle. And he talked to me the whole time, right against my ear. That low timbre uttering filthy and endlessly patient words to me that did more damage than his hands ever could have.

“That’s it… There… Feel that? That’s you doing that, not me.” His fingers curled, and my knees buckled. But he took my weight against his chest without breaking his rhythm for even a beat. “You’re gripping me so hard, little bird. Every time I go in. You’re squeezing my fingers like you don’t want them to ever leave you.”

“Please, I can’t…” I pleaded. Did I really want him to stop? Did I want him to step away and leave me with this burning ache, or did I want him to ruin me? It felt like I was on a cliff’s edge, knowing the danger of letting go and stepping off. As if he would own me forever if I gave him this side of me.