And maybe not even then.
Her breathing shifted again. Faster. Shallower. I could see her fighting the instinct to close her legs, to reach for me, to beg. Her body was screaming. But her discipline hadn’t cracked. She hadn’t moved since the last time I counted. Not even a twitch.
I brought my hand to her ankle and dragged it slowly up the inside of her calf, her thigh, over the rise of her hip. Her skin burned beneath my palm, and I felt the faintest ripple of tension travel up her leg, like her body wanted to buck but knew better. I curved my hand around her waist and held her there. Not to restrain her. Just to feel her shake. Just to feel the quiet storm she was keeping inside.
Her panties were ruined. Black lace, sheer with heat, soaked straight through. I could see everything. The slick parting of her folds, the tight throb of her clit barely hidden beneath fabric that was closer to lingerie than clothing. I didn’t touch. I just let my hand rest low on her stomach, thumb brushing near the waistband.
And that’s when it came back to me…
Her hand. On mine. Pulling it up her body, guiding it to her throat. That whisper of breath, half-choked and fearless.
I want it rough.
My grip shifted before I could stop it. One hand sliding from her waist to her neck, not hard, not fast—justthere. Just enough for her to feel the weight of it. Her eyes locked on mine instantly, wide, alert, wanting. Her pulse jumped beneath my palm, and her legs spread wider, involuntary and instinctive, like she was giving me access I hadn’t asked for yet.
I didn’t press.
Not yet.
I kept my fingers loose, my thumb resting at the hollow of her throat, and leaned down until my mouth hovered over hers.
“You want it rough?” I asked, low and quiet, not teasing.Real.
She nodded once. Barely. Her lips trembled like she wanted to answer, but she didn’t trust her voice.
“Use your words.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “God—yes, Rafe.”
That was all I needed.
I tightened my grip.
Not hard. Not cruel. But enough to make her breath catch. Enough to make her feel the edge of it.
And beneath my other hand—still resting over her stomach—I felt the lace grow hotter. Wetter. Her body answered before her mouth ever did.
She loved this.
The pressure. The weight. The fact that she was giving herself to someone who hadn’t earned her screams yet…but would. The trust of it made my throat burn.
I kept the pressure steady and brought my other hand lower. My fingers skimmed down to that ruined lace, dragging over the center seam with just enough pressure to let her feel it. I didn’t push harder. I didn’t slip underneath. I rubbed her slow, circular, and she gasped beneath me, back arched, mouth open.
Still, her hands didn’t move.
I watched her the entire time. Watched her mouth, her chest, the tight flex of her inner thighs as she fought not to grind against my hand.
“You’re not going to come for me,” I said, voice rough, “you’re going toshatter.”
She whimpered.
I pressed my thumb harder into her throat.
Her moan fractured against my hand, hips grinding instinctively toward pressure I wasn’t giving. I felt her pulse hammering beneath my fingers, every muscle pulled tight, body slick and desperate andtrying so hard to obey. And it wrecked me.
She was right there.Right fucking there.Her thighs were shaking. Her breath shallow. Her pussy soaked through the lace and pulsing beneath my touch. One more stroke—one little push—and she’d fall apart for me. She’d scream my name. She’d soak the sheets. She’d give me that slick, shattered surrender I’d been chasing from the second I walked into this room.
But I didn’t give it to her.
