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He laid a leisurely hand on my inner thigh then drifted his palm up and inward until he cupped between my legs. His palm pressed, his thumb made soft rhythmic indentations on my mons. I hung, caught in a moment of no time, mouth open, unable to stop him, unwilling to, and there was the puzzle.
There was why I had to kill this man – he made me crave what I should not want.
“You’re different, Red,” he drawled as he played with me. “How different is what I’m going to find out. Tell me, how many times have I fucked you?”
Loaded question. Fucking loaded question.
My mouth twisted and I swallowed several times, as if dust or his probing fingers were stuck in my throat. “Never,” I croaked.
“You might get lucky this time,” he murmured as he slipped a finger beneath the edge of my panties, and squeezed it slowly along my slit then back again, almost to my clit. Slip, slide. Not inside me, and barely parting my cunt lips...yet, an orgasm built.
Desperately, I shored up defenses, stiffening and muttering inane curses.
“Don’t come,” he added, gaze steady as iron.
As if. As if I would.
But, God help me, I did want to. Unwelcome, as it was, I lusted for that cataclysm of sensation.
Don’t come, don’t come, and so...I couldn’t.
Couldn’t, after he teased me for ages. That finger, playing me.
Don’t come.
He stroked until my legs shook and I had to clutch at his shoulders. My eyes leaked tears; my vision blurred; my abdomen cramped with need.
I wanted to. God I wanted to. Three years without coming and he stopped me.
“Beg.” Isak smiled, a thin unemotional smile.
The connection between our eyes could’ve bored a hole in the air. Some things were too far, irrefutably wrong. I scowled a denial, in silence.
“That.” He leaned in, voice hushed. “I haven’t seen that in years.”
He took his hand away, pushed on my belly, and my legs caved, I slipped to the floor, to all fours.
Moistening my lips, swallowing, I raised my head and rasped a question to this monster, “Seen what...?”
“Defiance.”
Oh.
“What pretty tits those are. Wriggle those panties off. Keep your head up.”
He waited for me to obey and drop my underwear to the side, then reached down and fondled my breasts until I was moaning, again. Fingers circling my nipples, squeezing. Fuck. When I felt liquid dribble down my thigh, I wanted to hide.
“Don’t come,” he whispered in my ear.
“Stop, please,” I said as softly.
“You don’t mean that, do you?”
It was a second before I shook my head, and pressed my breasts into his hands. A bare second. Humiliating.
I rode to his house in the car, curled on the floor below him, jarred uncomfortably by the bumps as the tires met uneven road. I was clothed as I had been, in lingerie, and compos mentis enough to know what was happening. We were going to his house. I was infuriated, sad, and in discomfort, for he kept his foot riding my stomach.
What was defiance when it achieved zero?
