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The ache inside of me intensifies. I was hoping this would provide some relief, but it only makes me need Elliot more.
“Please,” I whisper hoarsely.
Elliot’s hand leaves my breast and slowly trails down my body. Of course, he keeps his pace slothfully slow, and it only serves to draw even more tension into my muscles.
When his finger finally brushes over my clit, I choke on air. But his touch disappears a moment later, and he moves away from me.
Is hetryingto kill me?
“Lift your head,” he says, his voice dripping with lust. At least he’s having trouble holding himself back. “Look at how wet you are.”
I do as he says, and heat rushes through me. From this angle, I can just make out a wet spot on my new blanket.
“Such a messy girl.” He shakes his head as his mouth tips up in a devious smile. “What am I going to do with you?”
I resist the urge—no, theneed—to beg for his touch. Still, my expression is pleading as he watches me.
Finally, he moves in between my spread legs and settles on his knees. He doesn’t touch me—just looks—and a deep satisfaction blooms in his eyes.
It became apparent our very first night together that Elliot loves this. The surrender of power and control. The ability to drive someone out of their mind with need. He’s always loved holding my orgasms hostage, and secretly, I’ve always loved it, too.
Even now, however desperate I am to come, I wouldn’t want anything else with him. He may put my body through a roller coaster of highs and lows, of want and deprivation, but I trust him. He didn’t have to tell me that he’ll give me what I need—I already know.
So when his finger finally slides over my clit, I let out a sigh of relief and close my eyes. His movements stay slow and lazy, but I’m so sensitive and worked up that it doesn’t make much difference. Within minutes, I’m teetering on the edge of an orgasm. My breaths are heavier, and heat rushes through my body. I whimper, arching my back as I’m about to come, and—
Elliot pulls his hand away.
“No,” I cry.
“Shh,” he whispers soothingly. “Patience, love.”
Four more times, he brings me right to the edge but doesn’t let me come. I’m a gasping, sweaty mess—a direct opposite of Elliot right now.
Still dressed.
Still infuriatingly calm.
Still working my clit lazily.
Slowly, Elliot slips a finger into me. He curls it, hooking it inside of me, before he twists. His finger drags across my g-spot in a way that yanks an unexpected cry from my throat.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
“Again,” I moan. “Please, Elliot.”
I figure he won’t, which makes me cry out again when he does. He slides another finger into me while using his thumb to massage tight circles over my clit.
“Look at you,” he says lowly. “Squirming on my hand and soaking my fingers like a greedy slut. You want to come?”
“Yes,” I gasp.
Mischief sparks in his eyes, and I’m sure he’s going to pull away at the last second again. Just as I brace myself for a letdown, he curls his fingers into me harder. Electricity shoots through my veins, and within seconds, I’m coming.
My orgasm knocks the breath out of my lungs and leaves me trembling. Liquid gushes onto Elliot’s fingers, probably soaking my blanket, but he doesn’t stop. Only when the sensations become too much and I try to twist away from his touch does he remove his hand.
“I love when you squirt for me,” Elliot says, not taking his eyes off his glistening fingers. “Such a good girl.”
My only response is a helpless whimper. It takes me a minute to clear the haziness in my mind, and by the time I do, Elliot is partway done with untying me.
