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“But not yet.” He rocked back on his heels. “I don’t think I’ve made my point.”
He pushed up from the floor, leaving me wide-eyed and slack-mouthed at his refusal. But I wasn’t frozen in place for long since Elliot yet again gathered me in his arms, our naked skin pressing together.
Even though I was practically mad with desperate, sexual longing, my skin warmed in contentment as Elliot tucked me into his chest, both of us smelling like his soap. Simple bar soap, nothing fancy, yet the smell was so complex and comforting that I knew it was imprinted into my scent memory forever.
Every single one of my neurons was on fire, the fabric of his bedding grazing my naked body as he set me down on his bed.
He stood above me, taking in every inch of my naked form. I didn’t miss his pause on my arm, the wrinkle in his devoted hunger. It didn’t last longer than a second, then his finger was trailing the shape of my nipples.
My back arched upward, aching for his touch, for friction, for anything. But he merely traced the shape with a teasing touch, drawing a line to the other then down my navel.
I gasped as his fingers dipped between my legs then through my folds. My body welcomed him, hips undulating to help obtain the pressure I needed.
Elliot’s finger stopped, his eyes meeting mine. “No moving.”
Again, I could’ve cried from need, in desperation. Yet the notion of disobeying him was impossible. I stilled my hips while his fingers made lazily insertions, probing all the right places, almost the right way but falling back the second I felt the telltale tightening of pressure at the base of my spine.
I didn’t know how long he kept me there, at the edge, writhing, panting, pleading.
“Please.”
My breath was hoarse, my body already covered in a thin film of sweat despite my recent shower.
Elliot’s body stiffened, and he came into stark focus. All of his muscles seemed to be defined even further, the cords in his neck so pronounced they seemed to be made of stone. Elliot might’ve been pushing me back-and-forth from the edge, torturing me,but he was torturing himself too. His lust for me was etched into every part of my skin.
“Please, Elliot,” I whispered.
His fingers left my pussy, but before I could protest, his body covered mine, cock poised at my entrance, pressing against my pulsing core.
I let out a hiss between my teeth as he pressed but didn’t enter.
“Have you learned your lesson, Calliope?” His voice was guttural. “Will you disobey me again?”
Though I was going crazy with impatience, I was still me. “Yes,” I bit out. “I will. I may like being your toy while in here, but I will not submit to you fully. Ever.”
At the venom in my words, the truth in them, I expected him to frown in disappointment. I didn’t know why I expected such a thing from Elliot.
“Good.” He grinned instead. “Because fuck, do I enjoy punishing you.”
And then he slammed into me.
And my world erupted in pleasure.
ELLIOT
Calliope fell asleep easily because I made sure she would. I ensured that she was exhausted, satisfied, that she simply wouldn’t have the energy to stay up, thinking over the day’s events, wouldn’t overthinkus.
Although she had a damn good poker face, I was learning to read her tells. I was learning to read her. Though truly knowing her would take time. A lifetime, I expected. But I was learning enough. Enough to know that she was complicated. And that she was the woman I could see spending a lifetime learning.
I saw through her acrimonious exterior. I had since the first day on the boat, though I was unable to explain, even to myself, how I’d found the softness in her when all she showed the world was hardness. She kept her family on the outside to protect them, and she was trying to do the same with me. She didn’t want anyone hurt as a result of her choices. She’d die to ensure that.
My hand ghosted over her bandage, fist extending and relaxing in anger and fear.
How close she’d come to death. To me fucking losing her.
I hadn’t thought for a second about my safety. Didn’t give a shit about it, in fact. What was my safety if Calliope didn’t exist in this world?
My assumption that something had happened to her had turned to certainty. When I asked her about it earlier in the night, that ghost of trauma had come to the surface more clearly than it had before. Before it had been nothing but a flicker, nothing concrete. But I’d seen it. Something had marked her. First, it had caused that scar in her eyebrow that you couldn’t see unless you were gazing at it in certain lights. And that scar was the least of it. Whatever happened left a mental scar on Calliope Derrick. She had been close to telling me, when I asked. Because I asked. Because I didn’t think that Calliope would lie to me, even though I got the sense she was lying to everyone else around her.