Ian gives it to me—of course he does—rubbing his thumb against my aching clit as he slides three fingers deep inside of me. I clench down around him, grateful for the sudden sense of fullness—and for the way he’s pressed right up against my G-spot. I wait for him to start stroking me, to start sliding his fingers in and out in the rhythm I’m so desperate for. In the rhythm that will finally release my body—me—from this agony of frustrated pleasure.
He doesn’t do it though. Instead, he stops. Stops stroking my clit, stops moving his fingers. He holds himself completely still, waiting for me to break. Waiting for me to beg.
I almost do.
It would be so easy. He’s right there—right here—touching me, taunting me, tormenting me with the promise of more. The promise of what he can give me with just a few strokes of his fingers.
But I can’t. The words are stuck in my throat, trapped there by ancient memories and a fear I just can’t shake. And so I start to move on my own, rocking and wiggling my hips against his hand in a frenzied attempt to get the friction I so desperately need.
“Don’t,” he says harshly even as he brings his hand down on my ass yet again.
The sharp sound echoes through the room and I bury my face in the bed, choke back a scream as heat pours through my body. I don’t stop, though. I can’t. I’m too needy, too desperate, too far gone now to do anything but whimper and push frantically against him. My body is on fire, the need to come so overwhelming that it’s a razor blade against my skin, scraping, slicing, peeling away at the layers of armor I keep between myself and the world around me.
“Fuck!” Ian wraps one big hand around my hip and squeezes tight enough to hold me in place, balanced on his fingers. Balanced on the edge of madness.
It’s almost enough—just the feel of his hand digging into my flesh—and I tighten around him, my body milking his fingers over and over again. I’m so close, so fucking close. My head is fuzzy, my body light, and all I need is—
He pulls out in a rush and I do scream then, a hoarse, harsh sound that rips along my vocal cords without my permission.
The tears are coming faster now, blinding me, soaking the bedsheets beneath my face. “Why are you doing this to me?” I choke out, shuddering. “What do you want?”
He leans forward, grabs my chin. Twists my face to the side until I’m staring directly into his eyes. “What do you want?” he shoots back. “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you. I swear.”
I can’t do this. I can’t take it. It’s too much. It’s all just too much. “Untie me,” I whisper. “I want you to let me go.”
It’s a lie—letting me go is the last thing I want him to do right now. But I’m totally overwhelmed, completely vulnerable and I can’t take any more.
Ian freezes. He lets go of my chin, sits back on his heels. And though I know he’s talking to me, for a moment all I can do is stare. He’s so beautiful like this—eyes dark, jaw rigid, body tensed so that every perfect muscle is starkly defined—that all I want to do is touch. I want it so bad that my fingers flex, my wrists twisting and twisting against the belt.
“Damn it, Veronica! Answer me,” Ian snarls.
I would, but I don’t know the question. I’m too far gone to focus. I’m sinking, drowning, everything around me going soft and out of focus.
Ian curses again, low and vicious. And then he’s shifting on the bed, his hands sliding over mine as he starts to fumble with the belt.
It’s what I asked for but as I feel the give as the first knot unravels, I know it’s not what I want. “Please.” I force the words past my too tight throat, past my swollen lips. “Please, Ian. Fuck me. I want you to fuck me. I need—” My voice breaks. It’s all too much.
And then he’s there, his hand tangling in my hair as he pulls my head back so he can see my face. I’ve never felt so vulnerable, so wide open, and I start to close my eyes in an effort to hide.
But Ian stops me, his voice both sharp and impossibly tender as he says, “Don’t. I want to see.”
And when he asks like that, when he looks at me like that, I can’t do anything but give in to him. And so I stay just where I am, eyes open, body soft, all that I am laid bare for him in that one moment.
He knows it, too. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the sudden tenderness of his touch. He cups my cheek in his palm, rubs his thumb back and forth across my lips. “I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs as he replaces his thumb with his lips. “I’ll take care of you.”
He kisses me then, long and slow and languid, and I feel the last of my reservations slip away. I slide deeper and deeper until all I can feel, all I can think about, is him.
His hand skims over my cheek, down my throat, over the side of my breast to my hip. Everything is soft now, fuzzy, my body thrumming with desire. I press into his touch, craving it, needing it the same way I need his cock deep inside of me.