31. Quinn #3
I take my time. My fingers trace the landscape of him—the ridges of his abdomen, the cut of his obliques, the taut lines of his shoulders. Every muscle earned through dawn-to-dusk labor, every inch of him built for endurance. I map him slowly, deliberately, my touch feather-light.
His breathing changes. Shallow. Quick.
"You're hard already." I glance down between us. His cock strains upward, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip. "Just from being cuffed? That's telling, cowboy."
He doesn't answer. His hands flex in the cuffs, knuckles whitening.
I lean forward, my breasts brushing his chest, and drag my tongue along his collarbone. Salt and water and something underneath that's purely him. I nip at the tendon in his neck, then soothe it with my lips. His hips shift beneath me, seeking friction, but I pull back just enough to deny him.
"Not yet." My voice is barely a whisper against his ear. "You don't get anything until I decide you've earned it."
"Quinn." My name comes out rough, strained. "Don't—"
"Don't what?" I sit back, settling my weight on his thighs, keeping my pussy just out of reach of his cock.
The heat radiating between us is obscene.
"Don't tease you? Don't make you wait?" I roll my hips, grinding against his leg, slicking his skin with my arousal.
"Don't drive you out of your fucking mind? "
His nostrils flare. The tendons in his neck stand out like rope. "I'll make you pay for this."
"Promise?"
I slide my hands up his chest, over his shoulders, along his biceps. The muscles jump beneath my palms. He's fighting himself—fighting the urge to yank against the cuffs, to break free, to flip me over and fuck me until I can't remember my own name.
But he won't. Because some part of him—some deep, secret part—wants this. Wants to be at my mercy. Wants to surrender.
I can feel it in the way his pulse hammers under my fingertips. See it in the way his eyes darken when I take control.
I reward him with a longer stroke, dragging my wet pussy along the length of his cock without taking him inside. Just sliding. Gliding. Coating him in my slick.
"Fuck." The word punches out of him. His hips buck upward, trying to angle himself into me, but I lift away.
"Ah-ah." I press my palm flat against his chest, pinning him down. "I set the pace. I decide when—"
"Please."
The word cracks something open in my chest. Logan Wilder doesn't beg. Doesn't plead. Doesn't break. But here he is, cuffed to my bed, his voice splintering on a single syllable.
I should savor this. Make him wait longer. Drive him to the edge and pull him back again and again until he's nothing but desperation and need.
But I'm drowning too.
My arousal smears across his stomach as I shift position. I'm so wet it's obscene—soaked, aching, empty. Every brush of skin against skin sends sparks through my nerve endings. Every groan he makes pulses straight to my clit.
I can't wait anymore.
I rise up on my knees, positioning myself over him. The head of his cock nudges my entrance, and we both freeze. His eyes lock onto mine—blue burning into hazel—and I hold there, suspended on the edge of everything.
Then I sink down.
One inch. His jaw drops, a strangled sound escaping his throat.
Two inches. My inner walls stretch around him, clenching and releasing, adjusting to his thickness.
Three inches. My thighs tremble with the effort of going slow.
"Quinn—" His voice breaks. "Quinn, please, I need—"
"I know." I'm panting now, sweat breaking out along my spine. "I know."
I take another inch. Then another. Each millimeter is exquisite torture—fullness spreading through me, his cock hitting spots that make my vision blur. By the time I've taken him to the root, I'm shaking so hard I have to brace my hands on his shoulders.
He tries to thrust. His hips snap upward, driving himself deeper, and I gasp at the sudden pressure against my cervix. But I force myself to lift off, to deny us both.
"No." I shake my head, my beach-wave hair falling around my face. "I'm in control. You don't get your release until I say so."
"Jesus Christ." His head falls back against the headboard, the tendons in his neck straining. "You're killing me."
"You're killing me too." The confession slips out before I can stop it. "You have no idea."
I start to move. Slowly. Torturously. Rising until only the tip remains inside me, then sinking back down inch by devastating inch. My core clutches at him, reluctant to let him go, greedy to take him back.
The wet sounds are obscene—slick and fleshy and loud in the quiet room. Each time I take him to the hilt, his cock grazes that spot inside me, and my thighs clench involuntarily.
"More," he rasps. "Faster. Quinn, please—"
"Not yet." But my voice wavers. My resolve is crumbling.
I lean forward, changing the angle, and his cock drags against my front wall. White-hot pleasure shoots through me, and I clench around him involuntarily.
"Fuck." His hips jerk again, the cuffs rattling. "You're so wet. So fucking wet. I can feel you dripping on me."
"I know." I'm gasping now, my rhythm faltering. "I know, I know, I—"
I can't hold back anymore.
My hips snap forward, and then I'm riding him—really riding him. Hard. Fast. Brutal. The bed shakes beneath us, the headboard slamming against the wall with every thrust. My breasts bounce, my hair whips, my skin slaps against his so loudly it echoes through the room.
"Yes." Logan's voice is guttural, animal. "Yes, fuck, just like that—"
I slam down on him again and again, chasing my pleasure, using his body exactly how I need to. The pressure builds inside me—coiling, tightening, threatening to shatter.
"Quinn." His face contorts, his features twisting in agony. "Quinn, I'm close. I'm gonna—fuck, please, I need—"
"You hold it." The words come out breathless, ragged. "You don't come until I say."
"I can't—"
"You can." I grind down on him, swirling my hips, taking him impossibly deeper. "You will."
His whole body strains against the cuffs, muscles bulging, veins popping. His face is red, his teeth bared, every ounce of his considerable willpower focused on holding back the orgasm threatening to tear through him.
I'm right there with him. Right on the edge. So close it hurts.
I lean back slightly, bringing my hand to my mouth. Logan's blue eyes widen as I suck my index finger between my lips, wetting it thoroughly. Then I reach down between us and find my clit.
The first touch makes me cry out. I'm so sensitive, so swollen, that even the lightest pressure sends sparks cascading through my body. I rub in tight circles, matching the rhythm of my hips, bouncing on his cock while I work myself toward the edge.
"Quinn." His voice is barely human now. "Quinn, please. Please. I can't—fuck—I need to come. Please give me permission. Please."
The sound of Logan Wilder begging unravels something inside me. My core clenches around him, rhythmic and involuntary, and I know I'm about to fall.
"Okay." The word rips from my throat. "Okay, come. Come now—"
His orgasm crashes through him like a fucking tsunami. His hips buck wildly, driving into me from below, and I feel him pulse inside me—hot spurts of cum filling me as he roars. The sound is primal, raw, tearing from his throat like something caged finally set free.
That's all it takes.
I shatter. My pussy clamps down on his cock, milking him, pulling him deeper as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through me. My scream mixes with his, our voices tangling in the amber-lit air, raw and ragged and real.
I collapse against his chest, trembling, gasping, his cock still twitching inside me. The aftershocks roll through my body in diminishing ripples, each one pulling another weak moan from my lips.
His heart hammers against my ear. His breath comes in harsh, broken gasps. The cuffs rattle as his hands flex, instinctively reaching for me, and I manage to lift myself enough to fumble for the key on the nightstand.
The locks click open. His arms wrap around me—crushing, desperate, possessive. His mouth finds my hair, my temple, the curve of my cheek.
"Jesus Christ." His voice is wrecked. "Quinn. Fuck."
I can't form words. I can barely form thoughts. I just press my face into his neck and breathe him in—sweat and sex and something that feels terrifyingly like home.
His hands stroke down my spine, gentle now, soothing the trembling muscles. He's still inside me, softening, and I don't want to move. Don't want to break this connection.
"Next time," he murmurs against my hair, "I'm tying you up."
A laugh bubbles out of me—breathless, shaky. "Promises, promises."
His arms tighten. "Not a promise. A guarantee."
I lift my head and look at him. His blue eyes are soft now, sated, but there's something underneath—something fierce and possessive that makes my stomach flip.
"Looking forward to it, cowboy."
His thumb traces my lower lip. "You're trouble, Quinn Mercer."
"You love it."
His expression shifts—something raw flickering across his features before he masks it. "Yeah," he says quietly. "I do."
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with meaning neither of us is ready to examine. So I kiss him instead—slow and deep and thorough—until the world narrows to nothing but his mouth and his hands and the steady beat of his heart against mine.
That—
that’s the shift.
The one I didn’t know how to make before.
The one that isn’t about control.
Or leverage.
Or survival.
It’s about choosing someone without losing myself.
And for the first time—
I understand the difference.
THE END