Chapter 26 Lila
LILA
Once we’re back, he unlocks the door and lets me step inside first.
That alone sets my nerves humming, since he’s been doing that thing all night where he’s close enough to feel but not close enough to touch. His hand lingers at my back, steady, possessive without pressure, then he pulls away and shuts the door.
I turn, already warm, already expecting him to crowd me.
He doesn’t.
He shrugs off his jacket, sets his phone on the counter, and walks toward the kitchen like he’s done with the night. No kiss. No hands. No claim.
“Ethan,” I say.
He doesn’t look at me. “Go upstairs.”
I blink. “That’s it?”
“That’s the instruction.”
I scoff, but my feet move anyway. He watches me pass this time, eyes slow and unreadable, and the lack of reaction feels like a challenge I didn’t agree to but fully intend to win.
I climb the stairs, pulse climbing with me, and I don’t close the bedroom door. I sit on the edge of the bed, still in my dress, heels kicked off somewhere behind me, and try to calm my breathing like I didn’t spend dinner imagining his mouth on me.
My phone buzzes.
Ethan: Go back against the headboard. Dress stays on.
I swallow and do it. The fabric rides up my thighs when I lean back, and I don’t fix it. I let my legs fall open, just enough to feel exposed, then wait.
Another vibration.
Ethan: Take off your panties. Slow. I want to know you’re listening.
Heat crawls up my neck. I slide my hand under the hem, hook my fingers into the fabric, and ease them down my legs, letting them fall to the floor.
Me: Done.
There’s a pause long enough to make me restless.
Ethan: Are your legs open?
I glance down, then widen them a little more.
Me: Yes.
Ethan: Good. Don’t touch yourself yet.
My body doesn’t appreciate that instruction, but it follows it anyway. I shift, thighs tightening, breath turning uneven, and stare at the ceiling like it might help.
Another message lights up the screen.
Ethan: I’m still downstairs.
I picture him there, jacket gone, sleeves rolled, leaning against the counter like he’s deciding how far to push me.
Me: I noticed.
Ethan: Did you? Or are you too busy thinking about how wet you are?
My cheeks burn. I don’t deny it.
Ethan: Tell me.
I hesitate.
Me: I can feel it. Every time I move.
His reply comes immediately.
Ethan: Slide your hand along your inner thigh. Stop before you reach where you want to touch.
I do it, fingers dragging slow, stopping just short, my hips lifting without permission. A quiet sound slips out of me before I can stop it.
Ethan: Hold it there.
I hold.
Ethan: I’m standing by the stairs now.
My breath stutters. I glance toward the doorway, heart racing, but he doesn’t appear.
Ethan: Do you want me to come up?
Me: Yes.
Ethan: Not yet.
I squeeze my eyes shut, frustration and heat tangling together.
Ethan: You’re shaking. I know you are.
Me: I am.
Ethan: Spread your legs wider.
I obey, the air cool against my skin, my body aching with awareness.
Ethan: Now don’t move.
I hear his footsteps on the stairs then, slow and deliberate, but he still doesn’t enter. I picture him leaning against the hallway wall, phone in hand, watching me through imagination alone.
Ethan: I’m outside the door. Don’t look at me.
My pulse jumps.
Ethan: Tell me what you want.
I type without thinking.
Me: I want your mouth. I want your hands. I want you to stop teasing me.
Another pause.
Ethan: You’re going to sit there and ache while I watch you fall apart. And when I finally touch you, you’re going to be begging.
My body reacts hard to that, thighs clenching, breath shallow.
I hear the soft sound of him shifting just outside the room.
Ethan: Keep your legs open, he texts. Don’t move. Don’t come.
My phone buzzes again before I can steady myself.
Ethan: I’m right here.
Then the door creaks open behind me.
I hear him step in—just one quiet footfall, then another—and then silence.
He says nothing.
Does nothing.
I stare to the side opposite of the door, heart in my throat, breath caught somewhere between need and surrender.
The bed dips beside me.
Not a full shift. Just enough to feel the presence of him, weight and warmth close and deliberate.
He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t ask.
His hands settle on my knees.
They’re steady. Warm. Wide enough to cover most of my thigh in a single span. He squeezes—once, twice—then eases my legs farther apart, spreading me wider under his gaze.
Still fully dressed, still untouched, I let him arrange me like I’m here for this and only this.
My phone buzzes one last time on the mattress beside me.
Ethan: Don’t make a sound.
I don’t get the chance to type anything back.
Because his mouth is on me.
Hot. Open. Starving.
No preamble. No gentleness. Just tongue and pressure and slow, devastating intent. He drags his mouth through the slick heat like he’s tasting a promise and refuses to waste a drop.
My head knocks back against the wall.
I almost break the rule—almost make a sound—when his tongue circles right there, slow and focused, like he’s learning me again from scratch.
He pulls back just enough to say, low against my skin, “You followed every instruction. And now you’re going to lie here and take exactly what you’ve earned.”
Then he buries his mouth again.
His hands grip the insides of my thighs, holding me wide and still, and his tongue moves like he’s unmaking me on purpose—flattening, flicking, teasing, sucking. Every second makes my spine arch, my hips jerk, my fingers twist in the sheets.
He groans when I move.
Like it pleases him to know I can’t control it anymore.
Like he’s getting off on every twitch, every choked breath I try not to make.
When he seals his mouth over me and sucks hard, my vision goes white at the edges.
Then he does it again. And again.
My legs lock around his shoulders as I come, trembling so hard I think I might black out. My head falls back again, lips parted, no air left in me to even break the rule and scream. His grip only tightens, anchoring me as if he’s the one keeping me from coming apart completely.
Then he moves.
Without a word, without even letting me come down from it, he rises onto his knees between my legs.
I barely manage to register the shift before he grabs my hips and drags me down the bed, fast and rough, until I’m flat on my back with my legs dangling over the edge.
The cold rush of the room against sweat-slick skin makes me gasp.
He’s still fully clothed.
I feel the weight of his open belt press into my thigh as he shoves my dress higher, bunching it at my waist, exposing every wet, quivering inch of me he just ruined.
Then—he’s inside.
One hard thrust, buried to the base, his breath ragged against my neck as he holds still, just for a second.
I cry out, body jolting, the aftershocks of my orgasm still making me twitch. The stretch of him is too much and not enough, familiar and new all at once, and I can’t think through the rush of sensation slamming through my nerves.
He lifts one of my legs and plants it over his shoulder, forcing my body open at a sharper angle. The new position makes me feel it everywhere, like he’s rearranging something deep inside me.
“Fuck,” he mutters against my jaw. “That’s it. You’re so wet I can feel your pulse around me.”
My fingers clutch at the sheets.
He doesn’t give me time to adjust. He pulls back slow—so slow it nearly kills me—then slams forward again, harder.
The sound of it is obscene: wet, messy, unrelenting.
He shifts his weight, grips the underside of my thigh, and starts to fuck me at a punishing rhythm, eyes locked to where we’re joined.
“Watch,” he says. “Watch how your body takes me.”
I try. I really do. But my eyes roll back halfway through the next thrust and I can’t hold on to anything but the sensation.
He pulls out suddenly and flips me with a sharp tug on my hips, pressing my face to the mattress as he yanks me to my knees.
I barely register the change before he thrusts back in from behind, deeper this time, the angle brutal, perfect.
I cry out again, muffled by the sheets, and he just grips my hips tighter.
His breath is ragged now, right at my ear. “You don’t get to come again yet.”
I shake my head even though I want to. I want everything.
One of his hands slides up my back and fists in my hair, pulling me upright until I’m arched against him, still impaled on him, still struggling to keep my body from shaking apart.
“You feel that?” he asks, voice low and sharp.
I nod, panting.
“That’s what obedience gets you. But if you want more—” He thrusts once, hard enough to knock the air from me. “You’ll have to earn it.”
Then he pulls out again, and before I can whimper at the loss, he shoves me forward and pushes my knees apart wider. He drops low behind me, his chest against my back, hand sliding between my thighs to stroke me once—firm, possessive, knowing.
I’m already shaking again.
He straightens up and enters me slowly this time, both hands gripping my hips, the stretch more intense at this angle.
He holds still once he’s seated deep, hips flush to mine.
“Say it,” he rasps. “Say who you belong to.”
“You,” I gasp. “Ethan—please—”
But he doesn’t move yet.
He just stays there, inside me, stretched and trembling, breath hot on my skin, cock twitching as if he’s holding himself back by a thread.
And then, just when I think I might die from the stillness, he rolls his hips—once, slow and deep—and my vision shatters again.
He doesn’t pull out.
He stays buried in me as he rises to his feet, one hand locked around my waist, the other sliding under my thighs to lift me like I weigh nothing.
My legs scramble to hook around him, but he doesn’t give me time to adjust. He walks us across the room with me still wrapped around his cock, every step grinding him deeper, harder, until I’m reaching behind me to clutch at his shoulders just to hold on.
He stops at the window.