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When I realize what he’s doing, I double my efforts, flailing and bucking and kicking until I’m breathless. Still, he manages to get my wrists into the cuffs hanging over the headboard. I pull against the left cuff after he fastens it, and the leather bites into my skin but refuses to break.
I manage to scrape my nails over his cheek in a last-ditch effort, but he laughs it off. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
“You asshole!” The soles of my feet land against his thighs and his knees until he finally takes me by the ankles and holds them tight. I wince when his fingers press in hard enough to grind my bones together.
“You need to make up your mind.” He lifts my ankles until my feet are over my head. “You were practically begging me to fuck you, remember? You were almost crying for it. This is what you want. I’m giving you what you want. Why are you still fighting?”
I hardly know the answer anymore. I only know I can’t let him win. The arrogant son of a bitch. It doesn’t matter that I’m wet. It doesn’t matter that I want this. My body might, but the rest of me doesn’t.
He crosses my feet and holds them together with one hand, using the other to yank down the shorts I’m wearing. I don’t have panties and tremble when the cool air hits my hot, wet flesh. “Look how wet you are,” he grunts, immediately plunging his fingers inside me, stretching me, pounding me until it hurts. “But this isn’t enough, is it? Even though it feels so good. Doesn’t it?” He picks up his speed, his fingers curled, and a howl of primal rage tears itself from me. Because yes, yes, it feels good. Even better the faster, the harder, the more brutally he uses me.
I’m right on the edge, my eyes closed, every fiber of my being focused on the friction, the delicious, unbearable friction, and the tension it causes, and yes, it’s so good, yes—
And then I scream, but not in relief. I scream because he stopped a split second too soon. My eyes fly open, and I find him laughing at me, looming over me. “Maybe I won’t fuck you,” he suggests, now using my shorts to bind my ankles, cinching them tight enough to make me suck in a pained gasp. “Maybe I’ll keep edging you until your mind breaks. I have all day and all night. This could go on for hours. How much of it do you think you could take, little wolf?”
With my legs pushed back until my knees nearly touch my chest, he strikes my pussy with his open palm, and I scream again. I scream in pleasure more intense than the pain and shame. I don’t even know how he seems to predict exactly what my body needs. How does he know how to touch me and leave me defenseless?
I’m still lost in hazy, mindless pleasure when he plunges in, and now it’s his tongue working me, moving in and out, drawing my juice from deep in my core with every stroke of his tongue. I pull as hard as I can on the chains, but all it does is cause the leather to bite, then break my skin. Blood begins trickling down my forearms, mixing pain with the pleasure radiating from my pussy.
I’m so tired of fighting. I don’t want to fight. I want to feel. I want to savor, enjoy, and give myself over to him. So why won’t the words come out?
He lifts his head, breaking our connection, and I whine out my frustration at being denied relief yet again. “Say it.”
All I can do is jerk my hips, desperately fighting to give myself to him for any little bit of friction from his tongue or his lips. Why did he stop?
Oh, right. “No,” I grunt, even as my body tells another story. Even as my hips work, and I struggle for contact. I need it. I need to come. Why won’t he at least let me come?
“Fine. That’s the way you want it?”
He throws my legs to the side, and now I can see him fully without them in the way. He practically tears his shirt off, his chest heaving and his eyes blazing—then shoves down the loose pants and the shorts underneath.
My tongue darts over my lips at the sight of him. He’s beautiful, every inch, but especially the thick, erect rod swaying slightly, the tip glistening. For me, that excitement is for me, and it’s all I can do not to howl out my mindless desperation to feel it inside me.
“I tried to play nice.” He unties my ankles and tosses the shorts off the bed, then takes my shirt and pulls it up to my wrists all at once. My nipples are painfully tight, but even more painful when he tweaks them almost brutally, hard enough to make me yelp—but when I move, when I try to pull away, it only hurts worse. So much worse.
