Chapter 23 #2
It's me.
My body isn't cooperating with me.
It's not responding.
It's waiting.
For a command.
For permission.
For him to take control.
It's the most humiliating realization of my entire life.
And has made me wetter than I've ever been before.
He groans as his cock reaps the benefits, and he runs his hands up my body and squeezes my breasts. I lean forward into his hands and grind harder into his cock. I close my eyes as frustrated tears prick the back of my eyes.
It's not like I haven't had an orgasm before Nico. I was a virgin, but I've masturbated before, and it was great. And I never needed someone to say when.
But it's like something inside me knows that I'm with Nico. And it needs it. Needs him.
And his particular brand of pleasure.
A frustrated sob escapes my lips as I finally stop and drop my forehead to his chest.
Nico presses his lips to my temple in an effort to comfort me—but can't hide the curve of his smile against my skin.
The smug bastard knows.
He knows exactly what he's doing to me.
And he's enjoying every second of it.
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to beg, plead, whatever he wants.
Instead, I do the only thing I can do.
I slump against him, my body trembling with unfulfilled desire, a sob of frustration caught in my throat.
I can’t do this.
He just chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through me.
The bastard.
"Something wrong, Erica?" His voice is a low, teasing murmur against my ear.
I lift my head, glaring at him, my eyes wet with unshed tears.
"You know damn well what's wrong," I snap, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?" he asks, his voice a low, innocent purr that's anything but.
"This!" I gesture between us, my movements clumsy with frustration. "You. You're not letting me... you're not..."
I trail off, unable to finish the sentence, unable to admit the shameful truth out loud.
That my body won't let me come without him telling me to.
That I need him to take control. That I want him to.
To dominate me. Fully and completely.
"I'm not doing anything," he says, his voice a low, calm murmur that only infuriates me more. "I'm right here. I'm letting you do whatever you want. You're the one in control, remember?"
That’s a lie, and he knows it. He’s in complete control.
He’s got me exactly where he wants me.
Frustrated. Desperate. On the verge of begging.
Eager to.
"Just tell me what you want." It sounds so damn reasonable when he says it like that.
Just tell him that I want him to fuck me.
To make me come. To order me to come for him.
It’s so simple.
And so damn hard.
My pride, the last bastion of my old self, is warring with this new, desperate need.
"I don't know," I snap back, a bitter resentment lacing my tone. "You tell me."
He just chuckles again, the sound a deep, throaty rumble against my ear.
A fresh wave of humiliation washes over me, hot and suffocating.
I have to get away.
I try to pull away, to get off him, to put some space between us, but his hands on my hips tighten, holding me in place. Impaled on his cock.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asks, his voice a low, dangerous murmur. "We're not done here."
My body's betrayal is instant.
I stop struggling. My anger, my frustration, my humiliation—it all melts away, replaced by a wave of lust and want.
I want to stay. I want him to hold me here. I want him to do whatever he wants to do to me.
"You want me to tell you what I want?" I grit out.
"Yes."
I glare down at him.
"I want you to flip me over and finish what you started," I say, my voice a low, challenging growl.
He arches a brow, an arrogant look on his face.
"No," he says, his voice soft but firm. "I'm not going to make this easy on you."
“You think this has been easy on me?” I ask, my voice a choked whisper.
I don't know what I was expecting. For him to finally give in? To put me out of my misery?
But that's not who he is.
That's not what attracted me to him in the first place.
"I know it hasn't been," he says, his voice low. "That's the point."
I want to scream.
Or cry.
Or both.
Instead, I slump against him again, my forehead resting against his chest, my body trembling with a mixture of frustration and exhaustion.
"I can't win with you," I murmur against his chest.
He lets me rest for a moment, his hands stroking my back in a slow, soothing rhythm.
Then he speaks again, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur against my ear.
"You're trying so hard to win, Erica," he says, his fingers tracing the line of my spine. "This isn't a battle. There's nothing to win. This is about what you want, what you need."
He pauses, letting the words sink in.
"What do you need?" he asks again, his voice a soft, insistent whisper.
He doesn't let me answer.
Instead, he's rolling us, flipping me over onto my back in one smooth, powerful movement that leaves me breathless. The new angle pushes his cock deeper inside me, stealing the air from my lungs in a choked gasp.
My legs fall open instinctively, an invitation, a surrender my brain didn't authorize.
He’s braced above me now, his forearms on either side of my head, caging me in. The dim lamplight catches the hard line of his jaw, the dark intensity in his eyes.
He looks every bit the predator I know him to be.
This is what I want.
This is what I need.
My body sighs with relief.
This is the surrender I've been craving.
But just like he said, he's not going to make it that easy.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice a rough growl that sends a shiver straight through me.
My gaze flies to his, my breath catching in my throat.
His eyes, dark and fathomless, are locked on mine. There's no judgment there, no mockery, just a deep, unwavering intensity that sees right through me.
"You can keep fighting this," he says, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur. "You can keep pretending you want something different. Something… normal."
He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear.
"But we both know the truth," he whispers, his breath hot against my skin. "You can't lie to me. Not when you're wrapped around my cock, this wet, this desperate for it."
I whimper, a soft, defeated sound.
My hips buck against his, a desperate, involuntary movement.
He starts to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm that has me arching my back, my hands fisting in the sheets.
He's not fucking me.
Not yet.
He's just… moving.
A slow, in-and-out glide that’s both a promise and torture.
"Tell me, Erica," he murmurs against my skin, his lips tracing the line of my jaw.
"I need..." I start, then stop, my cheeks flushing with humiliation and desire. The words are a knot in my throat.
"You need what?" he prompts, his thumb coming up to stroke my bottom lip.
I squeeze my eyes shut, a fresh wave of tears pricking the backs of my eyes. "Please don't make me say it." It's a whisper, a last-ditch effort to preserve some shred of dignity.
He stops moving. Goes completely still inside me.
The loss of friction is a physical ache. My eyes snap open.
His expression is unreadable, but there's a new tension in his body, a coiled power that feels both dangerous and exhilarating. He's waiting.
"Fine. This is what you want?" I snap, the word sharp and brittle with frustration. "To see me beg?"
I glare up at him, my anger a flimsy shield against the vulnerability threatening to consume me.
A slow, wicked smile spreads across his face.
"Yes."
The word is a low, satisfied purr, a dark, delicious thrill that runs through me, making my pussy clench around his cock.
"But I'm not going to make you," he says, his voice a low, velvety purr. "You have to want to."
The words land like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs.
He doesn't want me to surrender to his power, his needs.
He wants me to surrender to my needs.
His needs just happen to counter mine.
The realization is a stunning, terrifying, exhilarating thing.
All at once, the fight drains out of me.
The anger, the frustration, the shame. It all melts away, leaving a raw, desperate need in its wake.
A need to be free.
Free of the expectations, the rules, the fear of not being enough.
Free to be the woman he sees in me.
The woman I'm just now starting to see in myself.
I reach up, my hands cupping his face, my fingers tracing the hard line of his jaw.
I bring him in for a kiss, my tongue tracing his lips, a silent invitation.
He kisses me back, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, a slow, deliberate, intoxicating dance.
His body presses into mine, the thick length of him a delicious pressure inside me.
This isn't a fight.
This is a surrender. But not to him.
A surrender to the truth.
I want him. I want this.
"Please, Sir," I whisper, the words soft and fragile. "I need you to take me. Whatever you want. However you want it."
The second the words leave my lips, a wave of relief washes over me so intense it's dizzying.
I've said it.
I've crossed the line.
There's no going back. This time, there's no hiding behind the auction or the circumstances of that night. I am doing this of my own free will. My own choice.
And it feels... right.
His dark eyes, so intense and fathomless, soften with a flicker of something that looks a lot like... pride.
"Good girl," he murmurs, and the praise sends a fresh wave of desire through me.
Then, before my eyes, he changes.
The careful control, the patient restraint—it all evaporates.
The predator is unleashed.
He leans down, capturing my lips in a kiss that's nothing like the others. It's not gentle or hesitant.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming, conquering, and I melt against him, a soft, willing sacrifice.