Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
PIZZA
I should have moved before he closed the distance.
There was room in the kitchen to shift, to slide past the prep station and put something solid between us, something neutral and cold that would break whatever had started building the second he stepped in behind me.
I know this space too well to get cornered in it, know every path out by instinct alone, and yet I stay exactly where I am, palms braced against the counter, heat rising through me in a slow, dangerous climb that has nothing to do with the oven being on or not behind us.
“Right there,” he says, low enough that it feels like the words settle into me instead of passing by.
My shoulders draw tight, tension spreading outward as I try to hold my structure where it belongs, but it’s already shifting, in a way I like far too much, in a way I don’t trust. The warmth builds from the inside, thick and heavy, pressing outward, making it harder to keep everything contained where it should be.
I pull my focus tight around the simple act of breathing, drawing the air in carefully and letting it out just as slowly, as if steadiness can be manufactured by force if I want it badly enough.
It does nothing for me. The problem is not the heat in the kitchen or the closeness of the room or even the knowledge that he is standing right there.
The problem is that he waits. He gives the space between us time to thicken, time to gather weight, until his attention feels more invasive than touch would have, as though he is learning me without ever laying a hand on me, tracing the outline of my reactions with nothing but patience, pressure, and the unbearable certainty that I am already too aware of him.
“You feel that,” he says, and there is no real question in it, only the quiet satisfaction of a man who already knows the answer.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, aiming for cool and composed, for the polished ease I know how to wear when everything around me threatens to tilt into chaos.
The lie hangs there anyway, exposed almost as soon as it leaves my mouth, because he says nothing at all.
He only lets the silence stretch until I can feel how false I sound, and then his hand comes to rest at my crust with infuriating care, fingers curving lightly as if he has all the time in the world to discover what kind of pressure will make me give.
It should not matter. The contact is too slight, too controlled, too easy to dismiss, and yet my body answers before my pride can catch up, the reaction moving through me in one swift, humiliating rush.
Heat surges through my center in a rolling wave that spreads faster than I can stop it, turning everything beneath his touch more responsive than I want to admit.
The change in his breathing is slight, though I hear it anyway, that quiet pull of air that tells me he felt the reaction I tried to hide and enjoyed it far more than he should have.
“That’s it,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to let the interest in it show. “Don’t hold out on me, sweetheart.”
“I didn’t—” I begin, though the protest never quite makes it out, because his fingers press a little deeper at my edge, not enough to disturb the careful balance of the moment, only enough to repeat the touch and take his time with what it draws from me.
My body answers him at once, faster now, the heat low in my center rising in a warm, humiliating rush that leaves my breath catching in my throat while every last bit of composure I had been clinging to starts to feel thinner than before.
He must feel that too. I know he does from the way his attention settles even more fully on me, from the quiet satisfaction that moves through him when my control slips just enough to show.
That is what makes the whole thing feel so dangerous, not simply the touch itself, but the way he studies every response like it matters, like he means to learn the exact pressure that makes me soften and the exact point where resistance gives way to something far more difficult to hide.
“I can’t wait to taste you,” he says, the words quiet and far too knowing. “You smell perfect.”
The effect he has on me is harder to hide with every second he stands there.
His thumb moves along my edge with maddening patience, taking his time in a way that lets the sensation spread instead of fade.
His digits dipping into my saucy cave. The tingle works its way through me slowly, leaving my pussy curtains warmer, my velvety folds softer, my whole body straining to stay composed while the ache deepens.
“There,” he murmurs, like he’s been waiting for exactly this. “You feel how that builds?”
I do. I feel all of it, every pulse, every wave of warmth, every humiliating little shift in my body as it answers him before my pride can catch up.
The way it gathers low and deep, the way it moves outward in slow waves that make it harder to hold myself together, the way my structure shifts to accommodate something I didn’t agree to and can’t seem to stop.
“I feel it,” I say, more breathy than intended, because my center pulses again under his touch, warmth cresting higher than it should, faster than it should.
His hand stills for a moment, and I think—stupidly—that maybe he’ll pull away, that maybe he’ll give me a second to recover, to rebuild, to reset whatever control I’ve lost.
He presses again, a little firmer this time, with the kind of certainty that tells me he already knows exactly what it will do.
The reaction hits harder than before, stealing the breath from my lungs as heat rushes through me in one deep, humiliating wave.
My edges pull tight on instinct, trying to hold shape, trying to compensate for the way everything underneath has already gone softer and far too willing beneath his hand.
“Let go for me, lover,” he says quietly.
My fingers curl against the counter, grounding myself in something solid, something real, but it doesn’t change what’s happening inside me, doesn’t slow the way my center keeps answering him, keeps softening every time he moves.
“You’re going to cum on my fingers,” he says, and the low, satisfied drag of his voice goes straight through me. “Every time I touch you, you’ll give me a little more.”
“I’m not giving you anything,” I shoot back, though the words come thin, stripped of bite by the way my body has already gone traitor on me.
His thumb strokes over me again, slower this time, as if he means to savor every shiver he pulls from me.
Heat blooms low and deep at once, rich and unbearable, gathering in my center until I feel full of it, too full, my whole body straining to hold itself together while something softer gives anyway.
My weight shifts before I can stop it, barely anything, just enough to lean into the touch I should be resisting, and his hand stills the instant he feels it.
“Don’t be such a brat,” he murmurs, closer now, the words warm and wicked against the tension wrapped too tight inside me. “You want to submit to me.”
I can’t answer. He’s right, and knowing he’s right only makes the ache worse. When he moves again, he takes his time, dragging the sensation out until it settles deep and leaves me warm, unsteady, and far too responsive for my own dignity.
“Too much,” I breathe before I can stop myself.
His quiet sound of approval is worse than any smirk. “There you are,” he says softly, and the praise in it hits me so hard my pulse stumbles.
I should stop this. I should step back and save whatever pride I still have left. Instead I stand there aching beneath his hands, hating how much I want to hear him say it again.
I should step away, put distance between us, do something to stop the way this is climbing through me, because it has gone far beyond teasing now and into something hotter, heavier, and much more dangerous.
He does not give me that chance. His hand stays where it is, steady and sure, and then he presses again with just enough pressure to make the sensation break over me in a deeper wave, one that spreads so completely I can feel it in every part of me at once.
“Too fast?” he asks, his voice low enough to feel private, and I swallow against the answer even though it is already there, already written all through me in the heat and the ache and the humiliating softness gathering low in my center.
“Too fast,” I admit, barely above a whisper. His hand settles more firmly, holding me there with a quiet kind of control that feels worse than force ever could.
“And too much,” he says, and this time he is not asking for the truth so much as dragging it out into the open where I can’t hide from it.
I cannot make myself answer. My body does it for me, warm and yielding under his hand, and the look that crosses his face is so darkly pleased it sends another pulse of heat straight through me.
“That’s what I thought,” he murmurs, and then he takes my chin between his fingers and tips my face up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
“You keep standing there like you want to fight me, sweetheart, and all the while your whole body is giving you away.”
I hate the shiver that runs through me at that, hate the way my breath catches when he says it like he already owns the truth of me.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” I manage, though there is not nearly enough bite left in the words. His mouth curves, slow and wicked, and the heat in his gaze turns almost ruinous.
“I’m sure of you,” he says, and that lands harder than anything else has, because there is no swagger in it, no performance, only the full, unsoftened weight of his attention.
His thumb brushes once along my jaw before his hand slides down to my throat, loose and possessive and just controlling enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm.
“You can feel everything,” he says quietly.
“Every bit of it. Don’t try to hold it in, go soft for me baby.
” My spine locks, my center answering in the same breath with a warm, liquid ache that makes my knees feel less reliable than they did a second ago.
He sees that too. Of course he does. “That’s it sweetheart, break for me,” he says, and the praise in his voice is the final, humiliating blow, because it makes something in me want to give him more.
He turns me with a hand at my waist and guides me back until the edge of the counter presses into my back.
The movement is easy, controlled, the sort of thing that should have felt simple and instead feels like surrender.
He steps in close enough that there is no room left for me to pretend I am unaffected, no room for anything except his heat and mine and the way the space between us has become its own kind of pressure.
“If you want me to stop,” he says, his mouth close enough to mine that I can feel the shape of the words, “say it.”
I should. I know I should. Instead I stand there trembling in my own skin while his hand tightens slightly at my waist and his eyes drop to my mouth.
“That’s what I thought,” he says again, softer now, and then he kisses me.
The first brush of his mouth is slow, almost cruel in how patient it is, like he means to make me feel every second of it, every shift, every deepening pull of want as my hands find his jacket and hold on.
By the time he kisses me properly, his hand sliding up my back and his other one still keeping my bean stimulated and everything exactly where he wants it, all that hard-won control I have been clutching to my chest is already slipping through my fingers.
He takes his time with me, with the kiss, with the breath he steals, with the sound that catches low in my throat when he draws back just enough to look at me and see exactly what he’s done.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the words sink into me low and deep, leaving my whole body aching with the awful, exquisite certainty that this is only the beginning.