The tease is the vibrator, which he turned on before brushing a soft kiss over my lips and then pulling back. When he left, I had moaned in protest, but he had only looked back at me from the doorway, his heated gaze sweeping over me and affecting me as potently as a caress.
He’d put his finger to his lips for silence. And I, who have agreed to submit to his demands, pressed my lips together.
“Soon,” he said, and then he was gone.
According to the clock mounted on the opposite wall, it has been thirteen minutes since he left.
Thirteen minutes I have been alone, aware of the gentle rocking of the boat. Aroused by the sensation of the vibrator buzzing between my breasts.
At first, the pulses had been localized. A slight tickle over my breastbone that seemed odd, but not uncomfortable. Intriguing, but not arousing.
But then I closed my eyes and let myself drift, and the sensation began to spread. To my breasts. Down to my belly. To the soft skin between thigh and torso where Cass has inked a red ribbon, a reminder of the mistakes I’ve made.
In fact, it is almost as if the vibrations are following my ink, following the path of my triumphs and tribulations, only to culminate now between my thighs as I think of where all those trials have led. To Jackson.
Deep, rhythmic vibrations fill me, along with soft, gentle teases that skitter along the surface of my skin like an electric current connecting each tiny hair along my body.
The pendant hasn’t moved at all, and yet I feel the sensations racing through me. And they are growing. Building.
Before he left me, Jackson told me that I’m not allowed to come, and I had scoffed when he’d said so. Come? How could I possibly when I couldn’t move? Couldn’t touch myself? When his erotic toy was between my breasts and not between my legs.
How wrong I’d been.
Now, as my body tightens and my arousal grows and my sex feels heavy with need, I can’t help but fear that I will break his rule and explode. Right here, right now, I’ll shoot up into the heavens with nothing but my imagination and these wild, trembling sensations to bolster me.
Frustrated, I writhe on the bed, but I can only manage the smallest of motions with my hips, and though I want to stroke myself, my hands are a long way from my clit, which is so damn sensitive that even the still air in this small room is tantalizing.
I glance at the clock. Fourteen minutes now. Just one measly minute has passed since I last glanced that way, and I can’t help but wonder when Jackson will return—and how I will survive until he does.
I close my eyes and try to focus on something other than my current state of arousal. But that’s really not possible. I’m nothing but sensation now, and even when I try to think about something other than the way I am feeling, all I can do is imagine him. Beside me. Touching me. Teasing me.
A tremor cuts through me, and I bite my lip. Hard. So much for trying to keep my thoughts under control. Right now, I am incapable of thinking about anything but him.
And then—as if the universe has decided that I’ve suffered enough—he is there. He stands in the doorway, his hands thrust casually into his pockets. And even from this distance, I can see that he is fully erect, his cock straining to burst out of the tight denim of his jeans.
I think I whimper. Because oh, dear god, I want him inside me.
“This is a truly spectacular sight.”
“Jackson, please.”
His brows lift, and I can tell that he is enjoying this game. This torment. “Please what?”
“You know.”
“Say it.”
“I want you inside me.”
“Not like that. Tell me.” He takes a step toward me. “Tell me exactly what you want. Because right now, what I want is to pleasure you. I want to see your skin ripple under my touch. I want to hear your breath stutter as you try to keep control. I want to see your cunt glisten as I make you more and more wet. And I want to watch your breasts pucker and tighten, your nipples as hard as nails and so very ready for my touch.”
Oh my.
“But I need you to tell me, baby. How should I touch you to get you there? Tell me what you want. Tell me what turns you on.”
My cheeks burn, which is ridiculous considering how open I am to him at this moment. But I can’t help it.
“Tell me,” he says, stepping closer. “Or have none of it.”
My eyes cut to him. “Cruel, Mr. Steele?”
“I can be. Or I can be very, very kind.” As he speaks, he moves his fingertip over my body. Literally over it, by about two inches. So that while I can imagine his touch, I do not get to experience it. Even so, it seems to me like he is leaving a trail of heat in his wake.
