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“Oh, God,” she pants.
I growl, removing my fingers from inside of her and slap her sensitive clit. She yelps and jumps at the sudden sting of pain.
“I never want to hear you say that name when you’re with me. There’s no God here, Wendee. Only me. OnlySinn. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she breathes out a moan as my fingers find their way back inside of her.
I lean my head in and whisper into her ear, “Do you like how this makes you feel? How my fingers make you feel?”
“Yes.” She starts to rock her hips, meeting my fingers in a sexy rhythm as they slide inside of her.
“Do you want to come on my fingers, Wendee?”
“Yes, Sinn, please,” she begs.
I pull back so I can watch her face again. Her head is still thrown back, she’s panting her pleasure to the ceiling, and anyone who looks over now will clearly know exactly what the fuck is happening in this booth. That gives me immense satisfaction to know that I’m claiming her. That everyone in here sees that she’s mine and mine alone to touch. I want to unleash my aching cock and pull her on top of me right here, right fucking now. But this isn’t how I do things. This isn’t me.
“Wendee, look at me,” I order.
She opens her eyes and obeys without hesitation. Fuck, that was a bad idea. Her eyes are so alive. She’s on the verge of pure bliss and I’m the one bringing her to her climax. I want to see her face as I push her over the edge. I want to swallow her moans of pleasure. I want to experience every facet of her in every position and every way possible. I curl my fingers, where I know I’ll hit that sensitive spot inside of her, and I add more pressure to her clit.
“Fuck, Sinn, that feels so good. You’re going to make me come.”
I have to force myself to pull my fingers out of her pussy and not give her the release she wants. She whines at the absence of my fingers and her eyes look confused. They’re still lost to pleasure, but definitely confused.
“Why did you stop?” She asks, breathlessly.
The fact that I want to make her come, the fact that I want to watch her face as she crashes, and the fact that I want to fucking touch her, and kiss her, and claim her, has me so fucked up and so fucking confused. I have to stop this before I cross a line I’ve never crossed before. I have to dosomethingbecause I want her in ways I’ve never wanted anyone before and that fucking scares the shit out of me.
I grab her face with the hand that was just knuckles deep in her juices and speak through clenched teeth. There’s no faking the anger I feel. Anger with myself for doing this and hurting her.
“Because whatever you think I am, I’m not. I’m not your savior, I’m notgood, and I’m not fucking nice. Don’t romanticize me. You have no idea who or what I am,.” I seethe in her face, griping her chin harder, before I push her away from me and slide out of the booth.
I don’t look her way again as I pass the booth, push through the crowd, and head to my penthouse. Once I’m inside the elevator I take her panties out of my pocket and stare at them.
“Fuck!” I bunch them up inside of my fist and punch the metal wall hard enough to dent it.
The elevator doors open, and I stumble into my penthouse feeling drunk on rage and pent-up desire. I lean against the wall and unzip my pants, pulling out my cock. I un-bunch the panties from my fist and place their wetness on my rigid, aching dick. I want to feel her wetness coating me and this is the closest I’m going to fucking get. So I grab them, along with my dick, and start pumping.
Dee
I’ll Make You Love Me by Kat Leon, Sam Tinnesz
I’m left sitting in shock, in the booth, alone. Never in my life has anything close to this happened to me before. I mean, I’m definitely used to getting hurt. Not being called again after having sex? Sure. Being cheated on and lied to? Absolutely. You know, thetypicalplays from afuckboy playbook. But I’ve never had a guy flat out refuse to give me an orgasm and walk away from mebeforesleeping with me. This is definitely a first and I don’t know what the fuck to think.
My body is still buzzing from his touch. I can feel his
fingertips trailing a line of burning ice down my breast and along my thigh. I can feel his warm breath against my neck and smell the leather and bourbon, mixed with my arousal, and it’s sooo fucking heady. It hits me so deep in my chest, in my stomach, between my legs, it’s as if I’m drunk all over again but I’m one hundred percent conscious and sober. Sober drunk. Is that a thing?
He’s so damn confusing! He let me interrupt him, when I don’t think he tolerates interruptions from anyone…ever. He told me that he didn’t hate me but he hates the way I make himfeel. Not feel any particular way, just feel, in general. And I don’t know if he meant to be that open and honest with me or not but that seems like a pretty
big deal to me.
From someone who understandexactlywhat he means by that admission, I know there’s more to it than what he’s pretending to convey. If he’s anything like me, I make him feel the same fucking way he makes me feel.
ALIVE.
And his voice, when he sank his fingers inside of me, echoes in my mind, imprinted in my memory.
