CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN #3
The humiliation of the entire scene rockets through me, my inner walls contracting with fervor.
Raising my drenched fingers to my mouth, I make a production of enjoying my arousal, gliding them over my lips and into the back of my throat with a purr of satisfaction, while his dick jumps in his pants—proving what a knack I have for torturing from the submissive position.
“Good girl. You should always be savored, Zara. Cherished.” He lets that statement hover in the air, mesmerizing me with only his voice and his gaze and the dense, soupy air, like he won’t move on until those words burrow deep enough to become part of my DNA—this notion that I am someone to be cherished.
It makes my eyes sting. I glance away to gather myself, expecting him to reprimand me. But when I turn back, he’s unbothered by my respite.
“Now touch yourself, gorgeous. Slide your hand over your perky breasts—squeezing and pinching—and then keep going.” He’s the pinnacle of control, the epitome of being opaque when facing an opponent, save for the gravel lining his rough order. “Let me see how you rub your throbbing clit.”
“Jesus,” I hiss because his deep timbre caresses my heated flesh like wolfish hands and ravenous lips.
No contact. Two feet of space between us. But I feel him everywhere.
With the fingers that are wet from my tongue, I cup my breast, kneading and tweaking my nipple while he tracks every subtle movement.
“Use your other hand too,” he commands, and when I comply, he adds, “Just like that. Harder though. You like the pain, don’t you?”
I twist and tug each nipple until it elicits a whimper and an affirmative, “I do.”
“You’re so swollen, so wet, baby. You’re soaking my sheets. Slide one hand down to your pussy now.”
Chills erupt on my skin. My heart thrashes against my ribs and sternum, temples and toes.
And all my muscles tremble with need as I follow his order.
He wears an expression of tranquil indifference, and yet it’s rapt all the same.
I think I’d do anything to yank on that thread of hunger, to finally see him unravel.
When my hand slips further, landing right on my core, we both release a slight gasp. It’s torture and relief and unadulterated salacity.
His lips stay parted in awe as he glides his hand over his thigh, his fist flexing, and with it, he reveals his hard erection, battling against his custom-made suit pants. A small surge of victory rushes through me.
“Three fingers this time.” His gaze is planted on the lewd act, surveying as I find a rhythm—in and out and swirling my clit. “That’s my girl. You’re radiant, taking what you want. Feels good, doesn’t it, darling?”
“So good.” My voice is a frail wisp of ardor, but I’m too dazed to care, more riled and shaken by my own hand than my brain or body can make sense of. All I know is that I can’t stop, that I need more, that even though he’s denying me and himself, it feels like his hand is guiding me over the edge.
“Don’t come until you ask me. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I exhale, and his eyes flash with a blaze of fiery lust. I don’t think he’d demand that I respond that way, but he likes it, and I want to be everything he likes.
He elevates my strength, but allows me to let go. It’s almost as if submitting, letting him hold the reins, is a gift. He’s the solace of the globe in the midst of my torrential snowstorm.
“Axel, I’m so close … please …” Those are the only words I can muster, my eyelids growing heavy, my pace accelerating, my limbs spasming.
His hand curls around my wrist, and before I can register what’s happening, my fingers are in the warmth of his mouth, and his piercing blues are glued to my face.
My orgasm is a begging, pleading, whimpering being, gagged and cuffed by the striking man before me.
But a pattering twinge pulses vehemently throughout my entire body, singing a hopeful anthem of dizzying crescendo.
He devours every drop of my arousal, and through the agony of my abandoned rapture, I hold my breath that this means he’ll be sliding into me—or at the very least, lowering his mouth to the incessant ache between my legs.
He stops sucking and places my hand on the bed, outside my thigh. Then he grabs the other hand, which drifted toward my core, and he sets it beside my other thigh as his eyes sear mine with his impassioned demand. “If you want this, suffer for it.”
My chest is heaving. My heart is pounding. Blood flow whooshes against my eardrums at an alarming volume. And all of me is throbbing and vibrating with need. So, I can’t fully process the meaning behind his words. “What?”
He at least has the good sense to appear mildly regretful, but mildly is the key descriptor. “Can you sacrifice? Leave yourself needy and swollen while denying the fulfillment of that desire until I grant you permission to take it or seize it myself?”
“You’re leaving me like this.” It flees from me as more of an indignant accusation than a question.
“Yes. And expecting you to stay that way until I say otherwise.” Whatever he finds in my face has him furnishing a reminder. “You have a safe word for a reason. If you want something else, use it.”
If I want something else?
Ignoring that, I issue my own challenge. “What does this prove?”
“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.” He palms my head, kisses my temple, and saunters toward the door.
“Decisions need to be made, but … next time you’re faced with an issue like Shep, you come to me first. For now, show me you can be a good girl for me, that you have enough faith in me to trust that even when something feels unbearable, I’ll give you everything you need. Then I’ll explain it all.”
He told me not to speak to him outside of work. The Shep issue probably would’ve trumped that demand though, so I don’t call him on it.
A question about whether this means he wants something real with me brims inside me, but my pride has something else flying out of my mouth. “Why help yourself to a taste then?”
He hears everything baked into that. Why torture yourself? Do you really want me?
Scratching his jaw, he releases a stifled chuckle, his sapphires sweeping over my naked and unsatiated body as he lingers at the threshold, still hard himself.
“At the end of the day, I’m just a man, Zara.
And you are irresistible.” His chest rises on a deep inhale, his focus still narrowed on me as he reiterates his earlier sentiment. “Someone to be cherished.”