Hook #2
Every time her body pulses with need, I don’t give her what she wants. I just breathe against it. Whisper threats she’ll ache to make real.
“You want my mouth here?” I ask, tongue brushing so close she sobs. “Say thank you.”
She doesn’t answer fast enough for my liking.
I pull back.
Her entire body jerks, desperate, ruined.
“Thank you!” she cries, voice raw and scraped.
And I still don’t move.
She’s not ready yet because I want her to break completely.
She says thank you like it costs her something.
Like it wounds her.
Perfect.
Her legs are trembling now—spread wide, held open by the ache between them and the weight of my stare. I haven’t even touched her properly, not really. Just enough to remind her who she belongs to. Just enough to make her drip for it.
“You begged,” I murmur, voice a scalpel. “But I’m not convinced you meant it.”
I rise, watching her eyes snap open, wide and frantic. My fingers ghost up her inner thigh again—close enough to feel the heat pouring off her skin, but not close enough to satisfy. I trace a slow, maddening path, every movement calibrated to make her burn.
She bucks her hips. I pin her down again.
“Still so fucking impatient,” I whisper. “Still trying to take what hasn’t been earned.”
My palm presses down over her lower stomach, holding her in place whilst my other hand moves lower. She thinks this is it—thinks I’m finally going to give her what she’s been writhing for.
Instead, I drag two fingers through her slick folds, slow as sin, then pull away completely.
She lets out a sound that could break a priest. A choked, shattered sob that curls in the air between us like incense.
“Not yet,” I growl, bringing my fingers to my lips. “You taste like a fucking sin, little bell.”
I suck them clean.
Her chest heaves. Her fists clutch the sheets. She’s seconds from falling apart, and I haven’t even started yet.
“You want to cum?” I ask.
She nods violently.
“You want to fall apart for me?”
Another nod. Desperate. Ferocious.
“Then tell me,” I demand. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“Tell me,” I repeat, low and venomous, “who you belong to.”
She doesn’t answer.
Her eyes shine—furious, embarrassed, needy. Her lip quivers like she’s trying to hold back a sob or a scream. Or both. She’s never looked more beautiful than in this moment.
I lean in, mouth brushing the shell of her ear, voice nothing more than breath and threat.
“You think if you stay silent, I’ll let you cum anyway?”
My hand slips between her thighs again, stroking her with the kind of precision that makes angels weep. She gasps—hips arching, legs trembling, throat working around a curse.
“You think I’ll be merciful just because you’re shaking?” I whisper. “Because your cunt is so wet it’s soaking my sheets?”
Still, she doesn’t speak.
Good.
I slide two fingers inside her, curling them with exact cruelty. Her back bows like a breaking violin. A strangled cry rips from her throat. My other hand clamps over her mouth.
“You don’t get to make noise,” I snarl. “Not until you give me what I want.”
Her eyes roll back.
I stop moving completely.
She whimpers beneath my hand—thrashing, twisting, trying to fuck herself on my frozen fingers. My grip tightens. She’s panting into my palm now, lips open, spit coating my skin. Beautiful. Broken. Mine.
“Say it,” I growl. “Or I leave you like this. Wet. Full. Empty.”
I press my thumb to her clit, not moving. Just there. Pressure without relief. Pain without satisfaction. The threat of pleasure worse than the denial itself.
I pull my hand away from her mouth.
Her voice comes out in a ragged whisper.
“You.”
I raise a brow. “What about me?”
Her cheeks flush deep pink. Her thighs tremble against my hips.
“I belong to you.”
The sound that leaves me is closer to a growl than a breath. A brutal, filthy thing torn from the blackest part of my chest.
Finally.
I grip her jaw. Force her to meet my eyes. And I smile—sharp, cruel, satisfied.
“Good girl.”
Her breath is ragged, caught somewhere between fear and need—and I drink it in like smoke, letting it burn through me until I can’t remember what it feels like to be anything but starved.
I don’t touch her yet. I look. I devour her with my eyes like I’m cataloguing every twitch, every flush of her skin, every way her pride is shattering just from being seen.
“Don’t close your legs,” I say, voice low, dangerous. “Not unless you want me to break them open.”
She freezes. Then she disobeys. A flicker of rebellion in her spine.
Good girl.
She doesn’t know it yet, but that’s how she gets me. Not with softness. Not with surrender.
With fight.
I crawl over her like a storm, palms caging her wrists above her head, mouth brushing her jaw as I speak.
“You want to cum so badly? I’ll give you the chance—but you’ll fucking thank me whilst I ruin you.”
I let one hand trail down, down, until I’m between her thighs, fingers teasing but never giving, smirking against her cheek when her body betrays her. She’s soaked. Desperate. Practically begging with her skin.
And still, I don’t let her have it.
Because she touched herself without permission. Because she thinks control is something she can keep.
Not in my world.
In my world, pleasure is punishment. And mercy is a myth.
Her thighs tremble, twitching against the restraint of my grip. I haven’t even truly touched her yet, and she’s already unravelling—already betraying every sharp word she’s ever spat at me with the raw, aching heat between her legs.
She’s glaring at me like she still has power. But her body’s telling the truth.
And I listen to the truth.
“You disobeyed me,” I whisper, my breath skating along her ear, teeth grazing the shell of it. “You touched yourself, and now look at you. Dripping for me like a whore. Is that what you are, Tinkerbell?”
Her breath catches—humiliation seeping into the flush on her cheeks—but her hips roll upward against nothing. Against air. Against denial.
I chuckle. Low. Cruel.
“I told you not to touch me. And now all you want is for me to touch you.” My fingers slip lower, ghosting over her clit but not enough to satisfy. “So I won’t. Not until you beg.”
Her lips part, but I cover her mouth with my hand before she can speak.
“Beg without words. Show me with your body. Let it betray you completely.”
I slide two fingers inside her—slow, relentless—and watch her eyes snap wide open. Her legs tense, her whole body convulsing like she’s not ready, like she’s too sensitive, like I’ve already found that edge.
She tries to twist her wrists free. I don’t let her.
I curl my fingers, hit that spot that makes her hips jerk—and then I stop. Pull out. Wipe her wet desire across her stomach like it’s warpaint.
She gasps. Shudders.
I lean close, licking the taste of her off my knuckles, slow and obscene. “You don’t get to cum yet, little thief.”
She looks destroyed. And I’ve never been harder in my life.
She looks like a ruined altar—hips arched in offering, wrists bound in silk, lips parted in silent rebellion. But her eyes… her eyes scream fire, even as her thighs betray her.
I don’t speak for a moment.
I watch.
I study the tremble in her stomach, the twitch of her fingers, the way her nipples pebble under the open chill of the room, untouched and aching for it.
Then I lean over her, slow, like a shadow swallowing light.
“Say it.”
She shakes her head. Just once. That sharp, stubborn flick of defiance she still thinks she owns.
So I tighten my grip around her jaw, thumb forcing her mouth open as I lower my voice to a whisper that drips venom.
“Say what you are. Say what you need.”
“I need…” she starts, and it sounds like a sob but it’s a snarl too. “I need you to let me go.”
I smile like the monster I am. A slow, patient thing. “Wrong answer.”
I slide my hand between her legs and slap her clit with an open palm. Just once. Hard. Sharp. She gasps like I’ve ripped a scream from her soul and the sound is better than music. She’s not quiet now.
“You cum when I say. You breathe when I allow it. And if you ever touch yourself without permission again, I’ll tie your hands behind your back for a week and make you watch.”
She whimpers—and it’s real. The kind of noise that cracks something open deep inside her. Not pain. Not pleasure. That twisted place where the two bleed into each other until you can’t tell the difference.
I pin her thighs down with my knees. Lean closer. My mouth hovers over hers, not kissing, just claiming space.
“Tell me what you are.”
Her body writhes beneath mine, ruined, desperate, hungry.
“I’m yours.”
“Louder.”
“I’m yours,” she chokes out again, louder now, voice breaking.
I still don’t let her cum.
Instead, I slide my fingers back inside her and bring her close—so close she’s trembling, begging with her eyes, lips moving without words—and then I stop. Again. Like I’m training a fucking Pavlovian doll to understand: pleasure is mine to give. Not hers to take.
I lean in and whisper, filth coating every syllable like poison sugar:
“Say thank you.”
She hesitates, trembling on the edge.
And I wait.
Because that’s what control is—not just breaking her. But watching her crawl through the glass to beg for the cut.
She says it.
Quietly at first. The kind of thank you that tastes like broken glass and pride swallowed in blood.
“Thank you.”
Not enough.
Not even close.
I grip her throat—not to hurt, not yet—but to feel the vibration of her submission when I demand, “Again.”
She gasps beneath my palm, pupils dilating until her green eyes turn pitch with fury and desperation, a feral kind of surrender that would make lesser men flinch. But I don’t flinch.
I inhale it.
I feed on it.
“I said again, little star.”
“Thank you,” she spits—spits—because even her surrender is warpaint. Even when she begs, she’s trying to bite. It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.