Page 108 of Vital Signs

The comparison sent a shockwave through me. The way he'd controlled my pain then, measured out relief in careful doses. Now he was doing the same with pleasure, and my body responded with complete surrender.

He stripped me slowly, hands mapping every inch of newly exposed skin. When my jeans finally hit the floor, my cock sprang free, already leaking and desperate for his touch.

He whispered something in French, then said in English, "You don't get to touch yourself. You don't get to come until I say."

His fingernails traced down the length of my cock, barely a whisper of contact but enough to make my hips jerk violently off the bed. The sensation was electric, sending shockwaves through me.

"Fuck!" I gasped, my body going rigid as I teetered on the very edge of climax. "Misha, I'm going to—"

His hand instantly pulled away, leaving me gasping and desperate. "No, you're not," he said coolly, watching my cock twitch against my stomach. "Not yet. Not until I decide you've earned it."

When he finally removed his own jeans, I was already shaking with need. The sight of his body, the way his arousal was visible between his thighs, made my mouth go dry.

"Look at me," he commanded, and then said something that must’ve been absolutely filthy in French as he settled over me.

The first touch of heat as he positioned himself made me groan, hips jerking up involuntarily. He was so ready, and when he reached down to guide me, I nearly came from the anticipation alone.

"Don't you dare," he warned. "If you come now, I'll make you wait hours before I touch you again."

The threat was enough to pull me back from the edge. Then he began to sink down, taking me into his body inch by torturous inch. The sensation was overwhelming as tight heat enveloped me.

"Fuck," I groaned, head thrown back. "You're so tight. So perfect."

He said something soft and breathy in French, and I almost lost it.

"Misha, I—" My hands flew to his hips, trying to still his movements. "I'm not going to last."

"I know," he said, voice commanding. “But not yet.”

He began to move. Slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that had me gasping. The drag of his body created complete sensory overload.

"You don't get to come," he murmured, hands on my chest. "Not until I've had my fill of you."

Every time I got close, he'd change rhythm, lifting until only the head of my cock remained inside him, then sink down at a different angle. Exquisite torture, keeping me on the edge.

"Fuck," I groaned, sweat beading on my forehead. "You're killing me."

Time became meaningless. He worked me ruthlessly, bringing me to the brink over and over without mercy, murmuring in French. My cock was so hard it was painful, pre-cum leaking steadily as he used me for his pleasure. His own arousal was evident in the flush spreading across his chest, his ragged breathing.

He tisked and then asked me something in French, picking up the pace slightly. "You want to come so badly, don't you?"

"Yes," I sobbed, past caring how desperate I sounded. "Please, Misha, please let me come. I can't take any more."

"Beg me in French," he commanded, that predatory smile playing at his lips. He told me the words to say.

I repeated the French phrase clumsily but with urgency, begging him to let me come.

Instead of answering, he leaned down and kissed me, deep and possessive. When he pulled back, his movements became more deliberate, angling his hips in a way that made me groan.

"Touch my cock," he commanded, guiding my hand between his legs.

My thumb found him, stroking with the same desperate rhythm as my heartbeat. His breathing hitched, and I watched his face transform—the careful control dissolving into pure need. Only for me. His movements became more erratic as his own pleasure built.

"Misha," I gasped, feeling that familiar tightening at the base of my spine. "I'm going to— I can't stop it—"

But he didn't stop. Instead, he rolled his hips harder, his own moans mixing with mine as he chased his pleasure.

"I'm coming," I warned desperately, "I'm coming—"