Page 26 of Tell Me Something True

And despite her body trembling with need, her arms aching from holding them in this position so long, despite her doubts, she didn’t want him to stop.

And she wasn’t going to beg.

So she kept her mouth shut.

He looked up at her with a small, knowing grin, as if sensing her frustration. Silently applauding her restraint and obedience.

“I see all this pretty skin,” he murmured, his fingertip now drawing lazy circles around her belly button, not a care in the world, this man at her feet, “and I want to mark it. With my fingerprints here” —he tapped her left hip, then her right— “my whiskers here” –he lightly, lightly trailed his finger along her inner thigh— “my cum here” —reached up and slid that fingertip along her collarbone.

She felt like a phoenix, one set aflame by his words and the images they invoked. Each touch like oxygen to that fire, building it higher and higher. Her need for him a living, breathing entity that subsisted only on his words. Fed off his touch.

“I see you standing there,” he continued, “being so good for me, and I want to ruin you.”

He drew his hand away and once more stretched his left arm out to the side, resting it on the sofa cushions behind him.

Showing her that despite his words, despite how he felt and what he wanted, he wouldn’t lose control.

“Put your knee here.” He gave the cushion to the right of his head a pat.

She looked at the distance between the floor and the cushion. “I can’t.”

He tipped his head back against the sofa. “Are you stopping me?”

She could. He’d made it clear she could stop this, could stop him, at any point.

“No. I mean, I can’t. My heels are too high.”

Her balance was already precarious with how far her legs were spread, the unsteadiness to them. With her hands still behind her back, there was no way she trusted herself to move even the slightest, let alone lift one leg onto the couch.

“You won’t fall,” he told her, as if it was true simply because he had decreed it to be. “I won’t let you.” He patted the sofa again. “Your knee. Here.”

It was another test. He had them lined up for her tonight, one after the other. So many ways for her to disappoint him. To prove him right.

So many ways for him to feel superior and righteous.

Shifting her weight onto her right leg, she lifted her knee. Wobbled. But Miles was there, right there, his wrapped hands going to her waist, steadying her.

“Hold onto the back of the couch,” he told her.

Biting her lower lip, she unhooked her hands from behind her back then slowly reached over him, her nipples brushing the top of his head, dragging through the soft strands of his hair. The moment she curled her hands around top of the couch, he let go of her hips and once more lengthened his arms across the cushions.

She’d never been in a position like this before. Spread so wide open, bent over a man, her hair hanging on either side of her face like curtains, her core inches from his face.

Had never felt so exposed before.

So vulnerable.

So needy.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he purred, his words a low rumble. His lips barely brushed the cropped curls covering her clit as he spoke, his breath warm on her outer lips. “Sopping wet and swollen for me, just like you said.”

She moved her hips, just a little. A sign. An encouragement.

A plea.

He made a sound, a thoughtful hum. “But there’s only two ways this cunt gets what it needs from me.” He skimmed his nose along her left inner thigh. “You’re going to have to beg me to give it to you.” He swept his tongue along her slit, the caress too light, too fast. “Or you’re going to have to take it from me.”

She made a sound of her own, a cross between a moan and a whimper. He teased her some more with slow, barely there brushes of his mouth. Quick, soft strokes of his tongue. He flicked the tip of his tongue against her clit and she rolled her hips again, seeking more pressure.

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