Chapter 6 Coco #2
He studies me for a long moment, unreadable. Whatever decision he’s making, he doesn’t rush it. Then his mouth curves slightly, not amused, but interested.
His hand moves to finally make contact with me. His hand lifts, pauses inches from my arm, then settles against my skin, fingers warm and deliberate as they slide slowly downward.
The touch sends a shiver through me, and I hate myself for it, hate that my body responds even as my mind rebels. But I hold my reaction in check, willing myself to stay calm, to play along. I want to make him want me.
His expression tightens, focus snapping into place, searching my face, as if he’s trying to decide if I’m being genuine or playing him.
“Trying to change the terms,” he says quietly.
I meet his stare, holding it steady while letting a hint of innocence slip into my expression. “Not change the terms so much as maybe I’m just tired of lying here waiting for things to get worse.”
The faintest hint of something crosses his face. Is it amusement, or intrigue? I can’t tell. But he’s leaning in closer as his hand rests on my shoulder now, and his thumb brushes against my collarbone.
His touch is both possessive and permissive. He’s testing me, watching how I react, seeing if I’ll break under his touch.
Maybe I will, eventually. But not now. Right now, I hold myself still, forcing my body into compliance even as my mind stays sharp, already planning how to turn this to my advantage.
This is the one advantage I still have.
The weight of his hand on my shoulder sends a sharp reaction through me, equal parts tension and awareness. It’s steady and deliberate, not hesitant. Not accidental.
I hate that my body registers it at all.
I do not trust him. I should not want this proximity. And yet the pull between us exists in this confined space where neither of us stops.
His touch is controlled, confident in a way that leaves no doubt about who holds the power here. It should repel me. Instead, it sparks something low and unwelcome, a response I did not ask for and cannot ignore.
Up close, he is undeniably attractive, all hard lines and restraint. A full, dark beard on his jaw. His eyes are sharp and intent, focused on my face, not my body, as if he is refusing to let this go somewhere too quickly.
That self-control is what makes this dangerous.
His hand leaves my shoulder. The absence registers immediately. For a moment, nothing happens. Then his fingers return, resting there again, light enough that I could shrug him away if I wanted to.
I don’t.
His attention sharpens. Not eager or indulgent, but assessing.
His hand drifts to my upper arm and stops, and he waits for my reaction.
The pause stretches, the moment charged. My breathing goes uneven, anger and calculation tangling together. This is the line. I know it.
So does he.
I shift slightly, not in surrender, but in invitation. His fingers tighten once, then loosen again.
“Careful,” he says quietly.
The warning is not for me.
“If we’re going to do this, do it right,” I say, keeping my voice steady even as my pulse jumps.
That gets his attention. His gaze locks on mine, searching, weighing. For a long moment, he does nothing.
His jaw tightens, the pause stretching longer than necessary, as if he’s weighing how much restraint he has left. Then he nods once. “Tell me what exactly you want.”
The power shifts, subtle but unmistakable.
I draw in a slow breath. “Touch me,” I say.
He does not move right away. When he finally does, his hand slides along my arm again, slow and deliberate, stopping at my hip. He stays there, waiting.
I swallow. “Further,” I add quietly.
Only then does his hand move carefully, following my direction instead of his impulse.
He hums at my admission, the sound vibrating against my skin. His fingers glide over my wetness, teasing and taunting as he works slow circles.
My breath quickens as the anticipation builds. He slips one finger inside me, then two, then three, stretching and filling me in a way that sends shockwaves of pleasure coursing through my body.
I arch off the bed, gasping as he pushes deeper into me, curling his fingers just right to hit that spot that makes my head spin.
"Yes," I moan, unable to contain the ecstatic noise escaping my lips. The sensation is overwhelming. A wave of pleasure builds within me, and the tension tightens, spiraling toward release.
He pulls his fingers out of me just as I am about to lose it. The restraints, the mystery, the lack of sleep. It all comes to a head here, in this moment. I’ve never felt such ecstasy.
He puts his fingers in his mouth and licks my essence off of them, and my body convulses, jerking against the leather straps.
He frees my wrists, and the sudden rush of blood makes my arms burn. I barely register it before I reach for him, pulling him close, needing the solid weight of him there to anchor me.
He keeps my ankles tied to the bottom of the bed.
Freedom in my arms doesn’t mean I’m free, but it’s a start.
After that, I stop hesitating.
He shoves his pants down, then pulls mine off and tosses them. He climbs on top of me, and my clit pulses, and I clamp down on it just as fast, resisting the pleasure. This isn’t supposed to feel like this.
Skin against skin. Heat and friction, and the sharp awareness of how exposed I am.
He pauses, searching my face. I don’t look away. I let him see exactly what I want him to see.
I grab his shirt and tug him closer, refusing to let his stalling take over now. He needs to believe I want him, that I’m into this. That’s the only way this works.
He positions himself at my entrance, keeping his eyes locked on mine. The silent question hangs in the air. I simply nod and pull him closer.
Then, with one powerful thrust, he’s inside me.
When he moves, it steals the breath from my lungs. The stretch is almost too much, the pressure overwhelming after being held still for so long.
Pain sparks first, then fades into something deeper and heavier that pulls a sound out of me before I can stop it.
My hands clutch at his shoulders, nails biting into muscle. I cling to him, not gentle, not careful. Every movement rattles through me, setting off a confusing mix of need and anger and something dangerously close to relief.
The ache in my arms lingers, a reminder of where I am and how I got here, even as my body betrays me. The contradiction only sharpens everything.
I hate that I want this. I hate that it works.
“God, yes, more!”
I urge him deeper, harder, my voice breaking when I tell him not to stop. The words are reckless the second they leave my mouth, but I mean them anyway.
Pleasure builds in uneven waves, tangled with fear and a grim sort of satisfaction. I am using this. I know I am. And the fact that it gives me even a sliver of control sends another jolt through me.
Our pleasure builds together until finally, with a last powerful thrust, he pulls out of me and spills onto my belly. It’s not gentle or pretty. It leaves me shaking, breathless, clinging to him as the room slowly comes back into focus.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
I should be furious. I should regret this. Instead, my first coherent thought is how dangerous it is that I already want more.