CHAPTER FOURTEEN #3
Always a negotiation between them. Push and pull.
It was only right considering the way she’d made Maximus ask for it in the bathroom—how she’d ordered him to sit down before she used three fingers.
Daphne’s gaze returned to his cock, as if considering if it was worth coming closer for.
Maximus slowed his strokes, letting her see it, showing how it would be worth her while. Eventually, she came closer.
Daphne’s steps were slow. Deliberate. Maximus understood there was a delicate balance to be struck here—if he pushed her too hard, this would all be over.
It took every ounce of strength not to reach for her, to pull her closer.
Instead he remained in place, stroking slowly, watching her as she approached. She stopped right in front of him.
“I’m here,” she whispered. “Now go faster.”
He wanted her even closer. But if she took another step, she’d be on his cock, and Maximus knew there was no chance of that tonight. This was all they had together, and he would have to make it enough. So he went faster.
“Does it feel good?” Daphne whispered.
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“It would feel better if you did it.”
Her smile widened. “I’m sure it would.”
Maximus went even faster. His strokes were short and desperate, focused on the base, his cock like iron in his fist. The ache for release became excruciating.
“Daphne,” he gasped. “I’m going to come.”
“Not yet.”
Maximus groaned. “When?”
“Soon.”
He slowed down, attempting to draw it out.
“No.” She shook her head. “Don’t slow down.”
“You can’t have both,” he managed to say. “Either I slow down, or I come.”
A smile tilted her lips. “Don’t slow down,” she said again. “And don’t come.”
What she was asking was impossible. It was an excruciating task, and undeniably a mental one.
Maximus doubted he was strong enough for it.
There was only so much control he could exert when he was this hard, this desperate, and this close to Daphne.
He clenched his jaw, trying not to make a sound.
Even his own moans turned him on. He stared straight into Daphne’s eyes, not daring to look anywhere else on her body, concentrating on nothing but the defiant way she was watching him.
Was this all a game to her? It had gone far beyond a game for him. This was not about winning or losing; victory was neither his nor hers. They were both in this together.
“Daphne. Please. One word from you. Please.” He could no longer bear it.
“Not yet.”
“Let me come.”
“No.”
He was going mad with arousal, desire. No one had ever had this effect on him before—certainly not Veronica or Constance. The girl before him was extraordinary and horrible and breathtaking and intolerable. He wanted her. He needed her. He feared he would never have her.
Just as his resolve was breaking, she whispered, “Come.”
Maximus came.
His cum poured into his hand in a surge of pure release, coating his palm and his fingers, taking the tension from the last few minutes with it.
He slumped forward in surrender, his chest heaving.
He couldn’t catch his breath. He didn’t want to anyway.
This was the most alive he had felt in months, and from the look on Daphne’s face, she felt the same.
She was mere inches away, her breath mingling with his.
“Daphne,” he whispered into the space between them. He wanted her to say his name back.
Instead she took a single finger and slid it through the wetness in his palm. She raised it to his lips. “Open your mouth.”
He opened his mouth. Daphne touched the tip of her finger to his tongue.
Maximus had never tasted his own cum before.
Anytime he finished in someone’s mouth, he made a point not to kiss them after.
This was something new to him—something he would only do for Daphne.
He would taste his own cum if it meant also tasting her skin.
He would taste his own blood if it meant tasting hers.
For now all he could do was suck gently on her finger, savoring the one part of herself she was willing to give him.
When she pulled away, she smiled. Then she turned and walked out the door, leaving him naked, his cock leaking all over his thighs.
Maximus hardly dared to believe what had just happened. There was no point in bothering to lock the door; she was the last woman—no one else was coming in. He stood there for so long that the fire started to dim.
Then he began to stroke again.
It took him a moment to grow hard again.
He teased himself into it, cupping his balls and working his fingers around the base, using his own cum to grow his erection.
He thought of Daphne—of her curly hair, her freckles, the blush on her cheeks.
He pictured that strappy black dress, the skin it revealed.
He thought of her kneeling before him, his cock in her mouth instead of in his fist. He wanted her in every position imaginable: on her knees, on her back, on top of him.
He wanted her in his bed and on the floor and against the wall and in front of the fireplace.
There was no end to the ways he wanted her.
This time when he came, he cried out her name, imagining that one day she might cry out his.
“Daphne.”