Chapter 10 #2
“Arms up,” he said.
I lifted them without hesitation.
He peeled the sweater over my head in one smooth motion, careful not to snag my hair.
When it was off, he dropped it beside the coat.
Then his hands returned—warm, broad, settling over my ribs just beneath my bra.
He didn’t cup my breasts. He simply held me there, letting me feel the span of his palms, the heat of him seeping through lace.
My nipples were already tight, aching points beneath the delicate cups. Every shallow breath pushed them against the fabric, and I knew he could see the outline, the way they strained.
He made a low sound in his throat—not quite a growl, more like approval given physical shape.
“You’ve been thinking about this,” he said. Not a question.
“Yes.”
“Tell me what you imagined.”
My face burned. “Your hands. Like this. But … more.”
“More how?”
I swallowed. “Lower. Harder. Inside me.”
His thumbs stroked once along the underside of my breasts—barely a touch, more suggestion than contact. My back arched instinctively, offering more of myself.
He didn’t me what I wanted.
Instead, one hand slid down my stomach, fingers splaying wide. He stopped at the button of my jeans.
“Look at me.”
I turned my head. His face was close—close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in his irises, the faint scar that curved along his left cheekbone like a signature.
His other hand came up to cup the back of my neck. Controlling the angle so I couldn’t look away.
“You don’t get to hide,” he said. “Not from this. Not from me.”
Then he popped the button of my jeans.
The sound was loud in the quiet shelter. My pulse slammed against his palm at my neck.
He drew the zipper down inch by torturous inch. Each metal tooth parting felt like it was peeling back another layer of restraint I hadn’t realized I still had.
When the zipper was fully open, he didn’t push the denim down. He simply slipped his hand inside—over the lace of my panties, cupping me through the fabric.
I gasped.
He was warm. So warm. And the pressure was perfect. Like he was claiming the heat between my legs as his personal territory.
“You’re already soaked,” he said, voice rougher now. “I can feel it through the lace.”
I whimpered. Couldn’t help it.
His middle finger pressed just slightly—enough to part my folds through the damp fabric, enough to find the swollen bud of my clit and settle there without moving.
“Don’t,” he warned when my hips tried to rock forward. His grip on my neck tightened fractionally. “You stay still until I say.”
My thighs trembled. I locked my knees and forced myself to obey.
“Good girl.”
The praise landed like a spark on dry tinder. My whole body clenched around nothing, desperate for more.
He circled once—slow, deliberate, barely enough pressure to tease. My breath stuttered.
Again.
Slower.
My head tipped back against his shoulder. He let me. Let me lean into him while he kept that maddening, feather-light pressure on my clit through soaked lace.
“You want my fingers inside you,” he said against my temple. Statement. Fact.
“Yes.”
“You want to come on them.”
“Please.”
“Not yet.”
He pressed harder—just enough to make stars flicker behind my closed lids—then eased off completely.
I made a broken sound.
His hand left my panties. I felt the absence like a physical ache.
He turned me slowly until I faced him fully. My jeans hung open, panties clinging wetly to my skin. My bra was still on, but my breasts felt heavy, nipples visibly straining against lace.
He looked down at me like I was something he’d waited years to see.
Then he backed me up until the edge of the sturdy wooden table met the backs of my thighs.
“Sit.”
I did. The cold wood against the bare skin above my jeans made me shiver.
He stepped between my knees, spreading them wider with his hips.
His hands went to my waist, thumbs hooking into the waistband of my jeans and panties together. He tugged them down just far enough to bare me to the tops of my thighs—jeans and lace bunched there like shackles he’d chosen not to remove yet.
I was exposed.
Open.
His gaze dropped. Dark. Hungry.
“Look at you,” he murmured. “Dripping for a man who hasn’t even kissed you yet.”
My face flamed.
He dragged one finger through my folds—slow, collecting wetness, never quite giving pressure where I needed it most. When he reached my clit again, he circled once, twice—then pinched gently.
I cried out, hips jerking.
He pinned me to the table with one hand flat on my lower stomach. “Still.”
I tried. God, I tried.
He leaned down, mouth hovering over mine—close enough I could taste his breath, but not touching.
“Beg me to taste you,” he said.
The words scraped out of me. “Please … taste me.”
His eyes flared.
Then he dropped to one knee.
My heart stopped.
He hooked my knees over his shoulders—jeans still tangled at mid-thigh, restricting how wide I could spread. The position left me helplessly open, completely at his mercy.
He looked up the length of my body, eyes locked on mine.
“You don’t come until I say.”
I nodded frantically.
His mouth descended.
Not gentle.
Not tentative.
He licked once—long, flat, from entrance to clit—then sealed his lips around the swollen bud and sucked.
I arched off the table with a broken moan.
He didn’t relent.
He worked me with devastating patience—alternating between slow, dragging licks and sharp, focused suction. Every time my hips tried to chase, he pressed me down harder with that iron hand on my stomach.
When my thighs began to shake uncontrollably, when my breathing turned into ragged sobs, when I was right there—right on the razor’s edge—he pulled back.
Completely.
Cool air hit wet, swollen flesh.
I whimpered, hips lifting uselessly.
He rose, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glittering.
“Not yet,” he said.
Tears of frustration stung my eyes.
He leaned over me, caging me with his arms on either side of my head. His erection pressed hard against my bare thigh through denim—thick, insistent, proof he was suffering, too.
When he pulled back, I was shaking.
My lips tingled from the brutal claim of his mouth, my thighs still trembling from the denied release he’d so carefully built and then stolen away. I couldn’t think past the ache between my legs, the wet heat still pulsing there, the way my body felt branded even though he hadn’t entered me.
He stayed close, one hand braced on the table beside my hip, the other sliding up to cradle the side of my face. His thumb swept once across my swollen lower lip.
I opened my mouth on instinct, wanting anything he’d give.
His eyes darkened at the small, involuntary motion.
“You’re going to scream my name,” he repeated, slower this time, each word deliberate. “When the time comes. When I decide you’ve earned it.”
I swallowed, voice barely more than breath. “I don’t even know your name.”
A flicker crossed his face—something between amusement and dark satisfaction, like I’d just handed him another piece of leverage he hadn’t expected to receive so easily.
He leaned in again, mouth hovering so close I could feel the shape of his next words before I heard them.
“Cassian,” he said quietly. “Cassian Locke.”
The name landed like a key turning in a lock I hadn’t realized was there.
Cassian.
It fit him too well—sharp edges, old-world weight, the kind of name that belonged to men who carved their own rules out of wilderness and war. I tested it silently in my mind, tasting the syllables.
“Cassian,” I whispered, testing it aloud.
His pupils flared.
“Say it again.”
“Cassian.”
He exhaled roughly through his nose, the sound almost pained. His grip on my jaw tightened just enough to remind me he still held the reins.
“When I finally let you come,” he said, voice gravel-rough, “you’re going to scream Cassian so loud the snow will shake off the branches. You’re going to beg with my name on your lips before I ever let you have the rest of me.”
Heat surged through me again, fresh and vicious. My clit throbbed in time with my heartbeat, still swollen and sensitive from his mouth. I shifted on the table, the denim still bunched around my thighs chafing against raw skin, and the small movement made me whimper.
He noticed.
His free hand slid down between us, palm flattening over my lower belly, fingers splaying wide enough that the heel of his hand pressed just above my mound—close enough to tease, far enough to torment.
“You’re dripping down your thighs,” he murmured, eyes locked on mine. “I can smell how badly you want it.”
I made a broken sound, hips lifting toward his hand before I could stop myself.
He didn’t pull away this time.
Instead, he let two fingers drift lower—sliding through the slickness coating my folds, gathering it, spreading it in slow, lazy strokes that never quite reached where I needed pressure most. He circled my entrance without pushing inside, then dragged back up to my clit—once, twice—light enough that it felt like cruelty.
My head fell back on a sob. “Cassian—please—”
There it was.
The first time I’d begged with his name.
His control visibly cracked for half a second—jaw clenching, breath hissing out between his teeth. Then he mastered it again, the way he mastered everything else.
He leaned down and bit the tender skin just below my ear—not hard enough to mark, just enough to sting.
“Not yet,” he growled against my throat. “You don’t come until I’ve heard that name fall out of your mouth at least a dozen more times. Until you’re so wrecked you can’t remember why you ever thought you could walk away from this.”
His fingers pressed harder against my clit—finally giving me real friction, real pressure—but only for three perfect, devastating strokes.
Then he stopped.
Completely.
I cried out in frustration, nails digging into his forearms.
He caught my wrists in one hand, pinning them above my head against the table with casual strength.
“Look at me.”
I forced my eyes open. His face was inches from mine, expression ruthless and reverent at the same time.
“When I let you come,” he said, voice low and lethal, “it won’t be because you asked nicely.
It’ll be because you’ve earned it. Because you’ve given me every last piece of control you’re still clinging to.
And when that happens, Lia—” He paused, letting my name sit between us like a promise.
“—you’ll scream Cassian Locke until your voice gives out. ”
He released my wrists.
Stepped back.
Adjusted my panties and jeans with the same careful, unhurried hands that had just ruined me.
Then he offered his palm again.
“Up,” he said.
I took his hand—legs unsteady, body screaming in protest—and let him pull me to my feet.
He steadied me with an arm around my waist until the dizziness passed.
Then he kissed my forehead—soft, almost tender, the contrast so violent it made my chest ache.
“Get dressed properly,” he said, voice calm again.
I nodded, still throbbing, still empty, still owned by a name I’d only just learned.
Cassian Locke.
I stared at him, wrecked and still throbbing.
He offered his hand.
I took it.
And followed him back into the snow—aching, owned, and nowhere near done.