Tahlia #2
“Feel that?” he croons. “That’s what you don’t get. Not yet. Not until I say. Not until you’re ruined.”
I don’t breathe.
I can’t.
Not with his mouth so close, his breath scorching the place he refuses to touch. Not with the way his words drip like poison into my bloodstream, thick and slow and irreversible.
He pulls back by a centimetre.
A single breath of space—and it hurts.
“No,” I gasp, the word slipping out before I can stop it, throat tight, body tighter.
“No?” His voice is velvet over a blade. “Did you just tell me no, little fairy?”
I hate how the nickname wrecks me.
I hate how wet I am.
I hate that he hasn’t even touched me properly and my legs are shaking like he’s already wrung me out.
He presses two fingers against the side of my thigh. Just that. Just pressure. Not where I need it. Not even close. But it’s him. It’s his. And I’m falling apart for scraps.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, like he’s amused. “What a sight. My little Tink. So stubborn. So starved.”
He dips his head again and lets his lips ghost over my skin, dragging heat through every nerve as he trails a line from my belly to the hem of my underwear. But he doesn’t touch where he should. He kisses around it. Beside it. Near it. Never there.
It’s torture.
It’s evil.
It’s him.
“I could make you scream,” he whispers, tongue flicking against my inner thigh, slow and obscene. “I could make you cum so hard you forget your name. But where’s the fun in that?”
I whimper.
He grins against my skin.
“No,” he says again, more to himself this time. “Not yet. Not until you break.”
Then—like a switch has been flipped—he shifts, grabbing me by the hips and flipping me onto my stomach like I weigh nothing, pinning me with a single hand between my shoulder blades, forcing my face into the cool silk of the sheets.
“You want to be touched so badly,” he growls, voice darker now. Deeper. Thicker with heat. “Then let’s see what you earn.”
My legs are spread. Held there by the sheer command in his tone, the promise in his silence, the threat in his grip.
He yanks my underwear down.
Not delicately.
Not teasingly.
Just gone—ripped from me like I never had a choice.
“Now,” he says, fingers trailing up my inner thigh again. “Be very good and keep your hands where I can see them, or I’ll tie them behind your back and edge you until your voice is raw from begging.”
I nod.
I don’t trust my mouth.
“Words,” he snaps. “You speak when I command you.”
“Yes,” I breathe, throat raw. “Yes—please—”
He chuckles. Dark. Dangerous. The kind of sound that crawls under your skin and stays there.
“Begging already,” he mutters. “What a filthy little doll you are.”
And then finally—finally—he gives me the barest touch.
Just the pad of one finger. One slow stroke.
And I nearly sob from the contact.
But it stops.
Immediately.
“Ah-ah,” he says, dragging the wetness he found to his mouth and sucking it off his finger. “Not even a thank you? Rude.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, cheeks burning. “Thank you…”
“Too late,” he growls. “Now I’ll have to teach you manners.”
I can’t stop shaking.
Not from fear. Not exactly. It’s something uglier. Something more shameful. Something that makes me hate myself even as I arch back towards the monster who’s ruined me.
Because he hasn’t even touched me properly and I’m already dripping for him.
“You’re such a good liar,” he says against the nape of my neck, his voice low and thick with mockery, dragging the words like silk laced with glass. “You wear your rage like armour, but your cunt tells the truth.”
My breath shudders out of me.
I try not to react. I try to still the twitch of my hips, the flutter in my throat, the heat that burns too deep for skin.
He notices.
And that smile—god, that smile. Crooked. Cold. Carved out of something older than cruelty itself.
“I said,” he murmurs, voice now just breath against my ear, “hands where I can see them.”
I yank them away from the mattress where they’d instinctively clawed, raising them above my head with a ragged breath. It makes me feel like a lamb. Offered. Spread. Useless.
But he likes it.
And I hate that I like that.
“I don’t think you understand how rare you are,” he says, sliding his hand down my spine in a featherlight tease, barely grazing. “They all shatter too fast. Cry too soon. Break like paper dolls.”
He presses lower. Over my arse. Between my thighs. That hand pauses.
“But you…” A pause. A groan. A sound so deep and dark I feel it more than hear it. “You scream at me with your silence. You look me in the eye when you should be crawling. You dare to want.”
His fingers brush—just barely—against where I ache.
Then vanish again.
I sob.
A broken, shamed, needy sound that doesn’t even sound like it belongs to me.
And he laughs.
Not kindly. Not with amusement. But with delight. Cruel, utter delight.
“There it is,” he breathes. “That sweet little sound I’ll chase you through hell for. That sound you swore you’d never make for me.”
He pulls back.
I lift my head, dizzy, ruined, confused.
Only to see him roll up his sleeves. Slowly. Methodically. As if he’s preparing for a business meeting. Or a bloodletting.
He walks to the end of the bed. Watching me. Head tilted.
“You’re going to thank me,” he says. “For making you wait.”
I don’t answer.
His jaw flexes.
“You will thank me, Tinkerbell. Or I’ll tie you up and fuck you through a week of denial so brutal your thighs will tremble every time I look at you.”
I swallow. “T-Thank you.”
He steps forward, the mattress dipping as his weight finally joins me again—finally—and his hands wrap around my hips like he owns them.
He pulls me back, slow and forceful, until I feel the thick, unforgiving line of his cock pressed between my thighs—but he still doesn’t slide in.
“I told you,” he says, voice low and ragged now. “You only cum when I say.”
He pushes forward. Not in. Just against. So I feel every agonising inch of him, not inside me. And then he grinds. Slow. Controlled. Deliberate.
I bite the sheets.
“You want it?” he rasps.
“Yes,” I choke.
“You need it?”
“Yes. Yes—please—”
He presses harder. Just enough friction to destroy. Not enough to relieve.
“Then beg me without using your voice.”
I look back, confused. Panting.
He just smirks.
“Show me. Show me you’re mine.”
I don’t touch him.
But I want to.
God, I want to.
My fingers twitch where they rest in the sheets, curling against the fabric like I can claw my hunger into the mattress instead of reaching out and doing what I shouldn’t. My thighs are slick, my lips parted, my breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sob I don’t want him to hear.
He’s watching me. I know it. I feel it in the scorch of my skin, in the heat crawling across my back like his eyes are a brand.
And he hasn’t said a word.
That’s the worst part. The silence. The punishment isn’t in his touch—it’s in the denial of it. It’s in knowing he could devour me whole and he’s choosing not to. He’s choosing to wait. To watch. To drag this out until I’m nothing but need and shame and the echo of his breath in my ear.
“Are you learning yet?” he finally says, voice low and cruel and sharp as broken glass under bare feet. “Or are you still clinging to the fantasy that you’re in control?”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip. My hips shift.
His boot scrapes the floor as he steps forward, and I nearly lose it from just that sound—rough and deliberate, like he’s dragging it out just to hear me gasp.
And then he’s there.
Close enough for the scent of him to wrap around me, leather and sin and something darker, like he’s stitched his soul from the ashes of every girl he’s ruined before me.
I don’t move.
I don’t.
But my head tilts up on instinct. My lips part. My breath shakes.
His hand doesn’t touch me.
His hook does.
Just a ghost of it. The cool metal grazes the side of my throat, skimming the curve of my jaw. Not hard. Not painful. Just… intimate.
Dangerously so.
“I didn’t say you could look at me like that,” he murmurs, leaning closer until his mouth hovers over mine, not touching. Never touching. “Like you want to be ruined and hate yourself for it.”
My whole body trembles.
“I didn’t say you could ache.”
I whimper. Quiet. But it’s there.
“I didn’t say you could want.”
The hook slides down, featherlight, until it drags over the centre of my chest, barely skimming fabric. My nipples tighten beneath the lace, a humiliating betrayal, and I know he sees it. I know that bastard sees everything.
“But you do, don’t you, Tinkerbell?”
I clench my fists in the sheets.
I don’t say yes. I don’t say no.
And that’s the problem.
That’s what breaks him.
I want to scream.
Not out of fear—but frustration. Rage. Humiliation.
Because he hasn’t touched me—not really—and I’m already falling apart for him.
Every nerve is a fuse, lit and hissing, the pressure building behind my eyes like I’m going to burst into flame just from the weight of his stare alone.
My breath trembles as I exhale. I can’t seem to pull enough air in.
Like the atmosphere shifted the second he stepped closer. Like the oxygen is his now.
He doesn’t need to tie me up.
He doesn’t need to lay a hand on me.
I am already restrained by want.
And he knows it.
“Go on,” he whispers, his voice as velvet-dark as the room around us. “Be the good little rebel. Say no whilst your thighs beg yes.”
The hook moves. Slowly. With surgical cruelty.
It trails between my breasts, the dull edge dragging over the lace like a threat and a promise wrapped in metal. I flinch—but I don’t pull away. I can’t.
Because when he touches me—when he speaks to me like that—I forget why I was ever angry. I forget what I’m fighting for.
My lip splits beneath the pressure of my own teeth.
He sees it. That crack.