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I should move my hands, I should explore the soft cotton of his shirt, I should cover his arm with my hand, push it where I need his fingers to be, but I can’t. I’m frozen in place, letting him do whatever he wants to me.
By the time he reaches the waistband of my jeans, I’m panting. He tucks his finger into the fabric and moves back and forward, his knuckle grazing the skin of my stomach.
I’m going to die.
This slow and painfully tormenting process isn’t at all what I expected, and this pressure within my body needs to be released before I detonate.
He pops the button at the top of my jeans.
My chest flutters as my breath catches.
He slowly tugs the zipper down.
I whimper.
When I regain control of my limbs and dig my nails into his forearm in a bid to make him go faster, he chuckles. Chuckles! He knows I’m dying, and he wants to prolong my death.
I’ve never been undressed as slowly in my entire life. I’m trying to be patient but it’s hard. Damn near impossible. From talking to Paige and Kenzie, and from what I’ve picked up at the club, dominants want to be in control. It’s their entire raison d’être, and if you try to mess with their flow, or rush them, it’ll come back to bite you in the ass.
And while I most definitely want him to bite my ass, I also want to impress him. He’s been with submissives far better trained than I am, and while it’s only a one night stand, I still want to give him what he needs as well.
The denim scraping my legs as he pulls my pants to the floor sets my nerve endings on fire. I’m hypersensitive, every touch felt somewhere deep inside. He braces my hips as I step out of the pants pooled at my feet.
When the palms of his hands skim the outside of my legs from my ankles to my ass and back down, I bite my lip. I’m covered in goosebumps. It almost feels like I’ve been blindfolded, and my other senses are on overdrive. The silence in the dimly lit room amplifies the sounds of my ragged breath echoing around the space.
On his second pass up my legs, he moves more slowly, and when he hooks his thumbs into the band of my black lacy thong I’m pretty sure I melt.
In a matter of seconds the underwear is tossed onto the jeans, and he encourages my legs to open. He looks up at me from where he’s kneeling at my feet, and I feel like a fucking queen.
“What’s your safe word, Addison?”
Tipping my head back, my eyes roll in my head. His fingers are gliding along the very edge of my pussy, taunting, teasing, promising more. I shiver, swallowing down the plea lingering on the tip of my tongue.
He pauses. “Addison.” My name is a harsh bark in the low-lit room.
“Black.”
“Black means?” His fingers re-start tracing along the lines of my soaking lips.
“Stop everything.”
“Good. What else?”
“Red means stop what you’re doing and change activity.”
He hums at my answer, and I shuffle my feet further apart.
“Yellow means approaching the limit of my tolerance.” My voice cracks, my breath snags in the back of my throat as one finger dips just a little between my lips making my knees shake.
“Green means I’m okay.”
His finger slips a little deeper. Legs threatening to buckle, I grab his shoulder to steady myself. “Good.” He stops again. “You still want to continue?”
It takes every ounce of strength I have not to beg outright. But at the expectation on his face, it’s tempting as hell. A growl escapes me, making the corners of his mouth twitch before tugging into a smirk.
“Struggling to be patient, Addison?”
I grunt. Talk about an understatement. His grin broadens, snapping something inside me. My fingers twitch to move to my clit, but he grabs at me with his free hand. “Don’t.”
