4. Chapter 4
Same room. Same paper on the table. Same cold stirrups waiting for my heels. But nothing about this feels like the last three times, because the last three times he was inside me with his hands, and now he's standing at the sink with his back to me, and I already know what he's about to do.
"Strip," he says, without turning around. "Everything. Kneel on the floor. Facing me."
I do it fast — faster than I mean to, which tells him something I'd rather he didn't know.
The gown goes over the back of the chair.
My underwear lands on the floor, and I leave it there.
The paper crinkles under my knees when I climb up, and the table's cold against my shins, and my nipples go tight from nothing but the air and the waiting.
He turns around. Lab coat off, folded over the back of his chair like he's done for the day.
He unbuttons his cuffs, one, then the other, and rolls his sleeves to the elbow, slow, watching me watch him do it.
The forearms on this man. The veins running down them like a map to somewhere I've never been.
"You brought the toy," he says.
"Yes." My voice comes out thin. "In my bag."
"Good girl." He says it flat, like a fact, and my whole chest goes warm and stupid.
"We'll get to it. First I want you to see what you're working toward.
" He unbuckles his belt. "Because that little thing in your bag is a stepping stone, Delilah.
It's not the destination. And I don't want you forgetting what the destination looks like. "
He pushes his slacks down just far enough, and pulls himself out, and — oh.
Oh, God. He's already hard, thick and heavy in his hand, and it keeps coming, and I understand now why he made me practice, why he made me work up to it in stages, like training for something.
Because there is no way, there is no way that fits inside me.
My mouth goes dry, and my thighs go slick at the exact same time, which is a betrayal I don't have words for.
"That's—" I stop.
"That's what you asked for." He steps closer, close enough that the head of it is right there at eye level with me, one bead of wet already gathering at the tip. "Open your mouth, sweetheart. Let's find out how much of it you can take."
I lean forward and lick the head first, just the head, and the taste of him hits me — salt and skin and something clean underneath, soap and him.
He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, and threads one huge hand into my hair, not pushing yet, just holding, like a reminder.
"Wider," he says. "Don't be shy with me. You weren't shy when you asked."
I take him in. The stretch in my jaw is immediate and obscene, and I only get maybe a third of him before I have to stop, and he lets me.
He lets me work, watching me with those pale eyes gone dark, thumb rubbing slow circles at my temple like I'm something precious.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Breathe through your nose.
You're doing so good. Look at you trying. "
I take more. My eyes water. My throat flutters against him, and he groans — an actual groan, low and rough, the first crack in that velvet voice — and his hips twitch forward, just once, involuntarily, and then he pulls back like he's caught himself.
"There she is," he says. "There's the girl who came here to beg.
Take it deeper. I want to feel the back of your throat. "
I go down until my nose is pressed into the wiry hair at the base of him, and I stay, and I can't breathe, and I don't care.
My throat works around him, swallowing, and his hand tightens in my hair, and he holds me there for a count of three before he drags me off, and I come up gasping with drool running down my chin.
"Good girl," he says, wiping my chin with his thumb and then putting the thumb in my mouth, and I suck it without being told.
"You want to know the best part? I'm not going to come in your mouth.
Not today." He steps back, tucks himself away, and I make a small, humiliating sound of protest that I will think about for weeks.
"Today you take the toy while that's still in your head.
So you know exactly how far short of me it falls. "
He gets the dildo out of my bag himself. Turns it over in his huge hand — it looks like a child's toy in his grip, five inches of flesh-colored silicone, and I feel a hot flush of shame that isn't entirely shame. "This is what he gives you," he says. Not a question.
"Yes."
"Then bend over the table. Face down. Legs apart.
" He waits until I'm arranged, cheek on the paper, ass in the air, and then his palm cracks down across one cheek and I yelp and my whole cunt clenches around nothing.
"That's for the sound you made when I put it away.
" Another one, on the other side, harder. "And that's because I felt like it."
The head of the toy presses against me, cold and blunt, and he works it in slowly, and my body — my traitorous, wonderful body — opens for it so easily now that it's almost embarrassing, wet and greedy and taking all five inches on the first push like it's nothing.
"Look at that," he says behind me. “Weeks ago this was a project.
Now you swallow it whole." He pulls it out to the tip and drives it back in, and the slap of his hips against my ass is fake, but the sound is real, and my knees slide wider on the paper.
"Does he fuck you like this? Does he get you this wet? "
"No—" I gasp. "No, he—ah—"
He lifts one of my legs up onto the table edge, opening me wider, and the new angle puts the curve of it right up against something that makes white spots bloom behind my eyes.
"There it is," he says, and he fucks me with it harder, steady, merciless, the wet sound of it filling the little room.
"I want you to come on this thing and think about how small it is.
And then I want you to come again, because I said so. Do you understand me?"
"Yes—yes, please—"
"Then let go." Three more thrusts and I do, I break apart, and I feel the gush of it run down my thighs and onto the paper, and he doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just keeps driving it into me while I shake and sob, and then a second one rolls up out of nowhere and takes me under, and I squirt again, a hot pulse all over his wrist and the table and my own stomach, and I hear him make a low, satisfied sound like a man finishing a good meal.
He pulls out. I hear the toy drop into the sink.
His hand lands flat on my back, between my shoulder blades, pinning me to the table while I try to remember how breathing works.
"That's twice," he says. "And that's the last time the small one gets to make you come.
" He leans down, close to my ear, and his voice is very quiet.
"Next week you take me. All of it. And you're going to beg me for it, Delilah, and I'm going to make you say his name while I do it. "