Chapter 9 Ethan
ETHAN
She says yes with that little nod, and that’s all I need.
The elevator doors slide closed behind us, and I press the button for the penthouse. The second the panel lights up, I back her into the mirrored wall.
She stumbles, breath catching, her heels clicking as she hits the glass.
“Thought you’d keep playing coy?” I quietly ask.
Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just a breath, and the flush of anticipation in her cheeks. I drag one hand up her thigh, under the slit of that sinfully tight dress she’s got on.
“Lift it,” I say.
She does it fast, exposing bare skin, and I find she’s already wet. I hook a finger around the thin band of the plug and tug lightly. She whimpers. My mouth curves.
“This,” I murmur, “is what obedience looks like.”
I press a kiss just beneath her jaw, soft for a second, then bite. She gasps, and I press her harder into the mirror, one hand gripping her thigh to keep her open for me.
“You could’ve said no.” I grind against her, slow, enough for her to feel the shape of me through my pants. “You could’ve made me wait.”
“I didn’t want to,” she whispers.
“I know.”
The elevator climbs too slowly for what I want. I hook her leg over my hip and rut against her with steady pressure, watching her mouth fall open. She’s not shy anymore. She moans when I want her to. Breathes harder when I deepen the rhythm.
“You know what I think about, Lila?”
She shakes her head, dazed.
“I think about that little sound you make when you come.” I roll my hips again. “I think about how long I can make you ride the edge before you fall apart.”
My hand wraps around her throat—not tight, just enough to keep her still while I speak against her mouth.
“I think about how wet you get when I tell you you’re mine.”
She shudders.
I lower my head, kiss her, bite her bottom lip until she gasps again, then slide my tongue in and take what I want. She clings to my shirt, nails biting through the fabric, trying to keep up.
“You’re trembling.”
“It’s the heels,” she lies.
I press the remote again. Her knees buckle.
“Liar.”
Her eyes glaze. She’s gone under again. I could take her right here. Part of me wants to. Another part wants to wait until I have her naked, restrained, and spread out exactly how I like.
But right now, I just want to feel her.
I pull her dress up to her waist and shove my hand between her thighs. She’s soaked. Her hips grind against my palm before she even realizes she’s moving.
“I could ruin you in this elevator.”
“You already are.”
“Say thank you.”
She doesn’t hesitate. “Thank you, Sir.”
I groan, low and rough, because that word in her voice does something to me I didn’t expect.
Not just lust. Hunger.
Need.
Possession.
I slam the emergency stop button.
She startles. “Wait—”
I silence her with my mouth, my hand never leaving her pussy, fingers slipping through her wet heat as I tease her back to the edge.
When she starts to clench, I stop and she whines.
I smile, because she’s trying to be brave about it and failing in a way that makes my chest tighten.
“Edge number one,” I say, calm and amused, and I watch her eyes widen as the words land. “Keep track.”
I press the button again just as the elevator jerks back into motion, and the timing matters more than the pressure, because her breath catches and her body answers before her mind can catch up.
By the time we reach the top floor, she’s flushed and unsteady, her lips red from my mouth and her thighs trembling from being held right where she needs release most.
I straighten her dress slowly, smoothing the fabric down as if nothing happened, then I brush her hair back from her face and lower my voice.
“Don’t say a word,” I tell her, steady and certain. “Not until I say you can.”
The doors slide open. I take her hand and she follows me without speaking, cheeks warm and body wired tight enough that I can feel it in the way her fingers curl into mine. She isn’t resisting this, and she isn’t pretending she wants to. She’s choosing it, step by step.
The door closes behind us once we’re inside, and I don’t bother locking it, because I don’t need to. She hasn’t tried to pull away once.
I back her against the kitchen island, and the cool marble meets her palms as I lift her up with ease, her dress riding up without a fight. She gasps when I spread her knees, the sound sharp and honest, and I pause just long enough to meet her eyes.
“Still with me?” I watch for hesitation instead of demanding it.
“Yes,” she answers immediately, too fast and far too eager to be anything but real.
Good.
I set the bag from the restaurant on the counter and pull out a box of leftovers from the restaurant. I open it and take out a piece of chocolate cake.
Her eyes flick to it. “Ethan—”
“Quiet.”
I take a fork, cut a slow bite, and hold it up to her mouth.
“Open.”
She does. I slide the cake between her lips, watching her close around it. Chocolate smears at the corner of her mouth.
“Chew.”
She obeys.
I drag my thumb through the smear and press it back to her lips. “Clean it.”
She sucks my thumb without being told. My breath tightens. I don’t look away.
“Good girl.”
I lower my mouth to her throat, kiss down to her collarbone, then lower still. I unbutton her dress slowly, one button at a time, making her wait between each one. Her chest rises fast. Her nipples are tight, straining against the fabric.
“You get so responsive when you wait,” I murmur. “You notice?”
She nods. “Yes, Sir.”
I free her breasts and take one into my mouth, sucking hard enough to make her cry out. My hand goes between her thighs again. She’s still soaked.
“You didn’t come down from dinner,” I say. “You just carried it with you.”
“I couldn’t help it.”
“I know.”
I press the remote once. She gasps, fingers clawing at the edge of the counter. Her hips jerk.
“Eyes on me.”
She forces them up. Her pupils are blown and her mouth is glossy. I take another bite of dessert, then lean in and press my mouth to hers, feeding it to her slowly. Chocolate smears between us. She moans into my mouth, the vibration answering her body.
“That’s it,” I say. “Taste it. Feel it.”
I pull back, wipe my mouth with my thumb, then drag that thumb down her sternum, over her stomach, and between her legs. I remove the balls, and she moans.
“You like being fed while you’re open like this?”
“Yes.”
“You like knowing I’m watching every reaction?”
“Yes, Sir.”
I sink two fingers into her, and she arches, breath breaking.
“So warm,” I murmur. “So ready.”
Her hands slide toward my shoulders. I catch her wrists midair and pin them to the counter.
“Ask.”
“Please,” she breathes. “Please touch me.”
I add a third finger. She sobs.
“That’s asking,” I say. “And you sound beautiful when you do it.”
I fuck her with my hand, steady and deep, watching her come apart inch by inch. Her legs shake. Her breath stutters.
“Not yet,” I warn when she starts to tighten.
She whines. “Sir—”
“I said not yet.”
I pull my hand out slowly, and she makes a sound of loss that goes straight through me.
I step between her legs and press myself against her. She feels how hard I am. How controlled.
“You don’t get release just because you want it,” I say. “You get it when I decide you’ve earned it.”
I take her chin in my hand. Chocolate still smudges her lips.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“I trust you.”
That does something dangerous in my chest.
I turn her gently, bend her forward over the island, and spread her again. Her dress is bunched at her waist. Her heels are still on. She looks obscene and perfect. I take the fork, scoop another bite of cake, and drag it slowly along her lower back. She shivers hard.
“So sensitive,” I murmur. “You feel everything, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
I press the fork down first, slow enough that she watches it with parted lips, then I follow with my mouth, licking chocolate from her skin in an unhurried line that makes her moan out loud, the sound slipping past whatever restraint she thought she still had.
Her reaction tightens something low in my gut, because she isn’t performing anymore, she’s reacting.
I reach for the remote again and let her see it this time.
“Hold still,” I tell her, my voice calm and unraised, because I don’t need volume to make the point. “If you move, I stop.”
She freezes instantly, muscles locked and trembling, breath coming shallow and fast as she waits to see if I mean it. I always mean it.
I increase the setting just enough to pull a sharp gasp from her chest, and I watch the way her body tightens around the sensation, the way she grips the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.
“That’s my girl,” I say quietly, approval threaded through every word. “Taking it, holding it, doing exactly what I asked.”
She’s shaking now, right on the edge, breathing my name into the stone like it might save her, and I lean in close enough that my mouth brushes her ear while I speak.
“You’re not coming yet,” I whisper, slow and certain. “But you’re going to remember this, every second of how it feels to wait for me.”
Her body clenches hard in protest, and I ease the setting down before she tips over, because control is only good if I keep it. I straighten and step back, letting the distance hit her.
“Stand up.”
She does, careful and unsteady, and I take my time fixing her dress, smoothing the fabric, adjusting her hair, and wiping the last trace of chocolate from her mouth with a napkin like I didn’t just pull her apart on my kitchen counter.
I cup her face and make her look at me.
“You’re doing beautifully,” I tell her, steady and honest. “And I’m nowhere near finished.”
Her eyes are bright and hungry, and there’s a flicker of nerves there too, which tells me she understands exactly how deep this could go.
Perfect.
I take her hand and lead her deeper into the penthouse, already planning what comes next.