Chapter 16 Evidence #2
"I don't—oh—" He'd found a rhythm designed to build but not satisfy, keeping me balanced on the edge of more. "Fair means... equal? Balanced?"
"Wrong definition." His mouth found my neck, teeth grazing. "Fair means agreed upon. Consensual rules. You agree to let me teach you patience, I agree to make it worth the lesson."
"I agree," I gasped, then yelped when he stopped entirely. "What—"
"Too easy. You'd agree to anything right now." But his smile took the sting out of it. "Tell me why you need this. Not want. Need."
I forced myself to think past the immediate physical demand. Why did I need this? What was he really asking?
"Because I've never had to wait for anything good," I admitted. "Either it happened immediately or it was a trap. Delayed gratification meant punishment coming."
"And now?"
"Now I need to learn that waiting can be... safe. That anticipation can be its own pleasure."
"Good girl." The praise hit like physical touch, making me shiver. His fingers returned, still teasing but with more purpose now. "We're going to take our time. I'm going to bring you close, then stop. Again and again. And you're going to let me."
"Why?" It came out more whine than word.
"Because you're not his toy anymore. Toys don't get to choose. Don't get to want. Don't get to experience pleasure for its own sake." His thumb found my clit, circled once, then retreated. "You're mine now. And I treat what's mine like it matters."
The words undid something in me. Not broken, just... loosened. Like a knot finally given enough slack to untangle. I nodded, not trusting my voice.
What followed was the sweetest torture I'd ever experienced.
Nathan's hands and mouth mapped every sensitive place, building arousal like a symphony.
Every time I got close to the edge, he'd pause, pull back, make me breathe through the frustration until it transformed into something else.
Not denial but delay. Not punishment but promise.
"Please," I finally begged, dignity abandoned somewhere around the third near-miss. "Nathan, please, I need—"
"Tell me what you need."
"To come. God, please, I need to come."
"Why should I let you?"
The question should have angered me. Instead, it made me think. Why should he? What had I learned?
"Because I waited. Because I trusted you. Because—" I gasped as his fingers curled inside me, finding that perfect spot. "Because I chose this. Choose you. Choose to believe pleasure doesn't have to be a trap."
"Good girl."
This time when he touched me, he didn't stop. His fingers worked inside while his thumb circled my clit with devastating precision. When I got close, I tensed, expecting him to pull away again. Instead, he pressed closer.
"Let go," he murmured against my ear. "I've got you. Success is trusting me to catch you when you fall."
I shattered with a sob, orgasm rolling through me in waves that seemed to go on forever. He worked me through it, gentle but relentless, until I was shaking and incoherent. Only then did he ease back, gathering me against him as my legs threatened to give out.
"See?" He kissed my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. "Patience pays off."
"Smug bastard," I muttered, but there was no heat in it.
We finished washing with gentle efficiency, then moved to his bed. I was loose-limbed and drowsy, but when I saw how hard he still was, need sparked again.
"What about you?"
"This was about you."
"No." I pushed him onto his back, straddled his thigh. "Success is mutual pleasure. Success is sharing want."
I rocked against him, still sensitive but craving the connection. He groaned, hand wrapping around himself as he watched me move.
"You're going to kill me," he breathed.
"Success is living through it," I countered, finding a rhythm that worked for both of us. "Success is choosing the pain that leads to pleasure."
We moved together, eyes locked, breath syncing. When he got close, I did too, the sight of him losing control triggering something primal in me. We came within seconds of each other, marking each other with the evidence of shared want.
After, lying tangled and sated, I thought about numbers again. But differently this time. Not failures measured in self-destruction. Instead, I counted successes. One: surviving. Two: trusting. Three: choosing. Four: healing. Five: learning to want without performing want.
"Thank you," I whispered into the darkness.
"For what?"
"For rewriting the metrics. For making success mean something other than dying properly."
His arms tightened around me. "You were never supposed to die, Bunny. You were supposed to live. Just took a while to figure out how."
"I'm still figuring it out."
"Yeah, well. Success is a process, not a destination."
I smiled against his chest, feeling something settle in me. Tomorrow I'd go back to those files. Tomorrow I'd bear witness to all those women who'd been marked successful in their destruction. But tonight, I was S-047: Failed experiment. Successful human.