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But she’s not here. She’s in her apartment, probably lying in bed, thinking about me, just like I’m thinking about her. I bet she’s touching herself right now, fingers sliding in the slickness I caused between her legs as she thinks about what we did tonight. She’s such a fucking brat, but she can’t help herself—she wants me just as much as I want her. She has to. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have let me touch her. She liked watching me taste her.
My hand moves faster now, my hips jerking up into my grip as I imagine her riding me, taking control like the spoiled little princess she is.
She’s so fucking tight, her pussy gripping me like a vise as she rides my cock, her tits bouncing with every movement.
I can almost hear her moaning my name, begging me to fill her up, to make her mine. That’s what she really wants. That’s what her cold eyes say each time they meet mine.
But I can’t. Not yet.
I force myself to stop, my hand stilling just as I feel the edge of an orgasm creeping up on me.
My body screams for release, but I deny it, squeezing the base of my cock to keep myself from coming. This isn’t about relief; it’s about control.
About proving to myself that I can resist her, even if it fucking kills me.
I collapse back against the pillows, chest heaving as I try to catch my breath.
She’s buried deep under my skin—that much is clear.
And one day, when she’s ready—when we’re ready—I’ll make her mine.
But until then? This is all I get. This is all she gets.
And it has to be enough.
I have to know when to hold them and when to fold them. Too much is at stake.
18
BILLIE
Islam the door shut, leaning against it as my heart races.
I’m so wet for him that it’s nearly dripping down my leg. The worst part about the entire thing is that he knows I’m putty in his hands. Asher so quickly brought me to the very edge until I was ready to spill over for him like some desperate whore. I was. Oh my God, I was. And had he not stopped, I’d have completely lost myself.
“Fuck,” I breathlessly say, wanting that man out of my mind. Somehow, I also want him buried deep inside me. I’m a fucking mess.
With my back pressed against the door, I slide down to the floor, my thighs trembling like a fucking earthquake.
My cunt’s still throbbing, slick and swollen—a damn traitor, begging for more of Asher.
He’s a beautiful, infuriating bastard who has me weak in the knees.
When his fingers were deep inside me, curling just right, it felt so fucking good. I wanted it. I needed it. And he knew it—that was why he stopped. That asshole left me hanging, my pussy clenching around nothing, my body screaming,beggingfor more of him.
I’m not in control.
I bite my lip hard as I shove my hand down my shorts, my fingers sliding through the sticky mess between my legs. I’m so wet, my juices soaked completely through the material. I picture him—his smirk, those honey-brown eyes that see right through me, that stupidly perfect jawline with scruff that makes me want to punch and kiss him at the same time.
My fingers desperately find my clit, swollen and aching, and I rub it in slow, deliberate circles, wishing it was his tongue instead.
“Shit,” I whimper as I slide two fingers inside myself, my walls clenching tight.
I’m so fucking needy, so desperate, and I hate him for it. Ihatehow he makes me feel, how he can reduce me to this—a horny, writhing, panting mess on the floor of my loft. I curl my fingers, searching for that sweet spot, and when I find it, I moan loudly, my head falling back against the door.
I picture his large fingers—big, rough, slamming deep inside me. I think back to how his body was pinned against me, his thick cock pressing against me as he whispered in my ear.
My other hand sneaks up to my breast, pinching my nipple hard; the sharp pain only makes the pleasure more intense. My hips buck against my fingers; my pussy clenches as I fuck myself faster, harder, desperate for that release he denied me.