Page 133 of His Drama Queen

"Are you sure—"

"Please."

He helps me peel them off, reverent and careful. His fingers trace up my inner thigh, and I spread my legs, giving him access. Inviting him to touch me, taste me, make me feel something other than this frustrated emptiness.

His fingers slide against me, and I'm wet enough. But not soaked. Not the way I get with them. Not that desperate slick that signals my body knows what it needs.

"You feel so good," he says, fingers circling, finding my clit with practiced ease.

It feels nice. Pleasant. Like a massage that hits the right spots without quite releasing the tension.

"Inside," I gasp. "Put your fingers inside."

He does. One, then two, moving slowly, carefully. Watching my face for reactions.

I rock against his hand, chasing friction. Chasing that edge. Trying to build toward something.

But there's no knot. No thick Alpha cock stretching me. No bite of claiming teeth on my neck.

And my body knows. My traitorous, bonded, ruined body knows the difference.

"Harder," I demand, frustrated tears pricking my eyes. "Ben, please—"

He increases pressure, adds a third finger, thumb working my clit with determined precision. It's good technique. He clearly knows what he's doing.

But I can't get there. Can't quite reach that edge no matter how hard I chase it.

"More," I beg. "I need more."

He pulls back, searching my face. "Vespera, are you sure—"

"Fuck me." The words come out desperate. Broken. "Please, Ben. I need to know if—just fuck me."

"Jesus." His breathing is ragged. "Okay. Okay, if you're sure."

"I'm sure." I am. I need to know. Need to prove this can work.

He strips quickly, and I try not to compare. Try not to notice that he's smaller than them, that there's no knot, that his scent is cinnamon instead of sandalwood and cedar and dark chocolate.

He's still attractive. Still good. This should work.

He positions himself between my legs, searching my face one more time for permission. I nod.

He pushes in slowly, carefully, and it feels... fine. Good, even. He's not huge but he's not small either. He fills me adequately. Moves with practiced rhythm.

But there's no stretch. No burn. No feeling of being completely claimed and owned and filled beyond capacity.

"You feel so good," he breathes, establishing a steady rhythm. "So fucking perfect."

I wrap my legs around him, trying to get deeper. Trying to feel more. Chasing something my body refuses to give.

He adjusts his angle, hitting spots that should make me see stars. His thumb finds my clit, working in tandem with his thrusts. Everything technically correct.

But I'm not getting closer. If anything, I'm getting further away.

"Harder," I gasp. "Ben, harder—"

He complies, hips snapping faster. Sweat dripping onto my skin. His breathing harsh in my ear. He's close—I can feel it in the way his rhythm falters.