Chapter Twenty-Two #2
The duvet is still clutched in her hands, pulled up to her chin, but I can see more of her face now, the way her blonde hair fans out over the pillow, the delicate line of her jaw.
Her gaze drops to my lips.
I want to kiss her.
I want to taste her.
But I don't.
I just watch her.
She watches me, too.
Her eyes, so deep and dark in this light, are full of a conflict I understand all too well.
Fear and desire.
Shame and need.
She’s fighting a war with herself, and what I have to offer is both prize and enemy.
I want to tell her it’s okay.
That she doesn’t have to be afraid.
That she can have this and still live the life she always dreamed of having.
But I can’t.
She has to figure that out for herself.
I have to let her.
The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words, with the memory of everything that’s happened between us.
I can feel the heat of her breath on my face, and it takes everything in me not to close the small distance between us and take her mouth with mine.
But I don't.
I lie perfectly still, a predator pretending to be tame, and I wait.
This is her decision to make.
This is her submission to give.
And regardless of all of that, I made a promise to myself that I wouldn't push her tonight unless she was ready for it. She's had an emotionally taxing day, week, and pushing her in any way could be too much for her.
Her eyes flutter closed for a moment, and I see her take a deep breath, a silent battle playing out across her features.
When she opens them again, something has shifted.
The fear is still there, but it’s softer now, edged with a new kind of resolve.
She lets go of the duvet with one hand.
Slowly, tentatively, she reaches out.
Her fingers, trembling slightly, brush against my chest.
The touch is electric, a jolt of want that shoots through me, straight to my groin.
I don't move.
I barely breathe.
I let her touch me.
I let her explore.
Her fingers trace the line of my collarbone, then dip lower, following the path of a single scar that cuts across my chest.
She leans in a little more, her fingers still exploring, her gaze fixed on mine.
I can see the questions in her eyes, the curiosity, the need to understand.
And I can see the desire, burning brighter now, a desperate, hungry flame.
She’s not running anymore.
She’s coming closer.
She leans in farther, and I know what she’s going to do a split second before she does it.
My entire body goes taut, a coil of anticipation so tight it’s almost painful.
And then her lips are on mine.
The kiss is hesitant at first, a soft, questioning brush of her lips against mine.
It’s everything and nothing like I remember.
Softer.
Gentler.
More tentative.
I let her set the pace, let her explore my mouth with hers, a slow, deliberate dance of discovery.
I keep my hands to myself, my fists clenched at my sides, because I know the second I touch her, I won't be able to stop.
I’ll take.
And I won't be gentle.
But this isn't about me.
This is about her.
She deepens the kiss, a soft sigh escaping her lips as her tongue touches mine, a hesitant exploration that quickly turns into something more.
I have to fight the urge to take control.
I have to fight the urge to roll her over, pin her beneath me, and remind her who's in charge.
I wait.
Her free hand comes up to cup the back of my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair.
She pulls me closer, her body pressing against mine, the duvet the only thing separating us.
The heat of her is intoxicating.
I can feel the peaks of her breasts through the fabric, and I want to rip it away.
I want to feel her skin against mine.
I want to taste every inch of her.
But I don't.
I let her lead.
She’s the one who breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at me, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.
Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed.
Her eyes, dark and dazed with desire, are fixed on mine.
She licks her lips, a slow, deliberate movement that sends a jolt of lust straight through me.
The urge to flip her to her stomach and yank her hips up until she's on her knees before me is so strong I taste copper.
I want to see her face in the mirror across the room when I drive into her from behind. I want to watch her expression change from fear to pleasure to submission as I take her.
I want to hear her beg.
But I stay perfectly still.
Letting her do this.
Letting her make the choice.
She’s looking at me like she’s never seen me before.
And in a way, maybe she hasn’t.
She’s never seen me like this.
Patient.
Waiting.
Letting her call the shots.
I see the realization dawn in her eyes, the moment she understands what’s happening.
What I’m doing.
A flicker of surprise, quickly followed by a wave of something else.
Something that looks a lot like trust.
It's that which keeps me from doing what my impulses tell me to do. I haven't been in bed with, and intimate with, a woman in a “vanilla” kind of way since I was seventeen. This is… difficult.
But for her, I can do it.
If only to prove my point.
She leans in again, her lips brushing against my ear.
“Nico, touch me,” she whispers, her voice a breathy, desperate plea.
My entire body goes rigid with the need to turn her over my knee and teach her a lesson about calling me by my name and not Sir while in bed.
I close my eyes for a second, taking a deep breath to get myself under control.
It takes everything in me, but I push past it, focusing on her request.
She's still holding onto the hope that she can have it this way. That she can be… vanilla. Which is what she thinks is "normal."
Hell, maybe she can. I'm not above admitting when I'm wrong. Maybe she'll find what she needs here, and everything will settle into place for her perfectly.
But I don’t think I’m that wrong.
Even if she does find her "normal" one day, I know what I saw the night of the auction, what I saw in her eyes, her body, what I heard spilling from her lips. She may give it up, but she'll never stop thinking about it, dreaming of it, fantasizing about submitting.
There's no going back.
She'll always be mine in some capacity.
That I know for a fact.
But if she stubbornly refuses to get off this path, then I can’t be on it with her. I've been down this way before. It was a long time ago, but it was filled with shame and guilt.
And really boring sex.
I'm comfortable with who I am and my needs.
I open my eyes.
I look at her for a long moment, my gaze unwavering, before I finally give her what she wants.
I raise my hand, my movements slow and deliberate, and let my fingers trace the delicate line of her jaw.
Her skin is so soft.
She shivers again, a full-body tremor this time, her eyes fluttering closed.
I can give her this.
Even if it means denying my own nature for a little while and risking her never being in bed with me again if this is the path she decides to go down.
But if there’s even a chance…
I lean in, capturing her lips in another kiss.
This one is different.
Not hesitant or unsure.
It’s firm, confident, a silent promise that I’m here, that I’m not going anywhere.
She melts against me, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she opens for me, her tongue meeting mine in a slow, sensual dance.
My hand slides from her jaw to the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in her hair, holding her in place as I deepen the kiss, taking control in a way that’s subtle but undeniable.
Her other arm comes up to wrap around my shoulders, her body pressing flush against mine.
The duvet is still between us, a frustrating barrier, but I can feel the heat of her, the soft curves of her body, the frantic beat of her heart against my chest.
My cock, a hard, heavy ache, presses against my boxer briefs and throbs with a need so intense it's almost painful.
I want to be inside her.
I want to feel her wrapped around me, hot and tight and wet.
I shift the duvet with my free hand, my knuckles brushing against the warm, smooth skin of her stomach, as I pull it from between us.
She gasps against my mouth, a sharp, ragged sound, as the cool air hits her skin.
But she doesn't pull away.
She leans into my touch, her body arching, a silent plea for more.
My hand flattens against her stomach, my thumb tracing small, lazy circles over her skin, getting closer and closer to the waistband of her shorts.
Her breathing hitches.
Her kiss becomes more desperate, more demanding.
I bite back the triumphant curve of my lips and keep at the same maddening pace.
Slow.
Teasing.
Waiting for her to make the next move.
Waiting for her to break.
My fingers dip below the waistband of her shorts, my knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin between her legs.
She’s so wet.
I can feel the heat of her, the slick evidence of her arousal, and it’s all I can do not to slide my fingers inside her right then and there.
But I don't.
Because if this goes the way I want, the end will definitely justify the means.
I keep teasing.
Light, feather-light touches that have her squirming against me, her hips arching, trying to get more friction, more pressure.
Then, I pull my hand away completely to wrap my arms around her again, and she makes a sound of frustration, a needy little whimper that goes straight to my cock.
I can't help it.
I smile against her lips.
And she feels it.
She pulls back, her eyes flying open, a flash of annoyance in their depths.
But it’s not real annoyance.
It’s the frustration of a woman on the edge, a woman who wants, needs, and is being denied.
A woman who claims she doesn't need to submit.
Yet waits to be dominated.
She is an exquisite contradiction.
"I want to feel you," she whispers, her voice a breathy, desperate plea.
"I'm right here," I say, and she groans in frustration.
I know that's not the answer she wants to hear. She wants me to deny her, maybe even tie her up, until she begs, pleads.
But I won't.
Not tonight.
Even if it kills us both.
Except I’m having a hell of a good time.
Who knew, after all this time, I'd find another satisfying way to deny someone in bed?
She glares at me, a pout forming on her lips that’s so damn cute I want to kiss it away. And then bite it.
So I do.
I lean in and capture her bottom lip between my teeth, nipping it gently, then soothing it with my tongue.
She whimpers, her hips bucking against mine, a silent, desperate plea for more.
I kiss her again, a slow, deep, possessive kiss that leaves us both breathless.
When I pull back, her eyes are heavy-lidded, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from my kiss.
She looks debauched.
And I’ve barely touched her.
I can't wait to see what she looks like when I’m inside her.
But that'll have to wait.
My self-control, a finely honed instrument over the years, is being tested in ways it hasn't been since I was a teenager, fumbling in the dark with a girl whose name I can barely remember.
My entire body is humming with a tension so tight it feels like a live wire.
Every muscle is coiled, ready to spring.
To take.
To claim.
To dominate.
But I don't.
I lie there, a statue of restraint, and I let her lead.
She kisses me again, her hands roaming over my chest and shoulders, her touch growing bolder with each passing second.
Her fingers trace the muscles of my abdomen, then dip lower, her knuckles brushing against the hard, heavy length of me.
My breath hitches.
My control, so carefully constructed, starts to crumble.
I can feel the beast inside me stirring, the dark, hungry part of me that craves control, that needs to see her submit, to hear her beg.
I want to flip her over, pin her hands above her head, and drive into her until she's screaming for mercy.
Instead, I roll onto my back, pulling her with me, so she's straddling my hips, the duvet a tangled mess around us.
Her tank top is askew, exposing the smooth skin of her stomach, the delicate curve of her waist.
My gaze drops to her breasts, and I can see the hard peaks of her nipples pressing against the thin fabric.
My hands come up to rest on her hips, my fingers digging into her soft flesh.
She looks down at me, her eyes dark with desire, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.
This is better.
This gives her the illusion of control.
It lets her think she's the one in charge.
And for a little while, she can be.
She leans down, her hair falling around our faces like a curtain, and kisses me.