Page 75 of The Final Faceoff
I whimper again, my thighs twitching in anticipation, the ache between them bordering on unbearable.
His hands—big, warm, and maddeningly slow—trail down my sides, grazing my ribs, my hips, before stopping just short of where I need him most. He watches me, soaking up every twitch, every sharp breath I can’t hold back. His mouth curves into a smirk, wicked and knowing, before he dips lower, his lips tracing a lazy path down my stomach.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, dragging his knuckles along the inside of my thigh, so close to where I want him but deliberately avoiding it.
I let out a soft, desperate sound, shifting my hips, hoping he’ll take pity on me, but he only chuckles, the vibration of it making me shiver.
“That cunt is needy,” he muses, his breath a whisper against my flushed skin. “Dripping. Desperate. Begging for me to touch her.”
He ghosts his fingers up the length of my thigh, stopping just short, hovering, teasing. My breath catches, my entire body tightening in anticipation.
“But I think I’ll keep torturing her a little longer.”
A strangled moan escapes me, my hands fisting in the sheets, my body arching toward him in helpless need.
He hums in satisfaction, kissing the crease where my thigh meets my hip, his lips unbearably close, but still—not close enough.
“Patience,” he reminds me again, voice thick with control. “Or maybe I’ll make you beg for it.”
His hands tighten on my thighs, spreading them wider, making me feel completely open to him, completely at his mercy. A slow, approving hum leaves him, his thumbs stroking over my inner thighs, just barely brushing the slick heat between them before retreating.
I cry out in frustration, my hips lifting, searching for relief, but he tsks, pressing me back down with a firm hand on my stomach.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement, dark with something deeper. “So fucking needy. So desperate for me, but you haven’t even asked nicely.”
I bite my lip, swallowing back the whimper threatening to escape. His fingers trace lazy patterns over my skin, his mouth following, teasing, never quite where I need him. The ache between my legs grows unbearable, a dull, throbbing pulse that makes it impossible to think about anything except him, his touch, his mouth?—
He presses a single finger against my soaked entrance, just barely dipping inside before pulling back. My whole body jerks, a choked sound escaping me.
His chuckle is low, smug. “Fuck, you’re not only wet. You’re already dripping. So easy for me.” His lips skim over my thigh, his breath warm, torturous. “I could make you come right now with nothing but my voice, couldn’t I?”
I nod frantically, but he clucks his tongue, shaking his head. “No, sweetheart. Use your words.”
My fingers dig into the sheets. I hate how easily he reduces me to this—a trembling, aching mess willing to say whatever it takes to get him to give me what I want.
“Please,” I whisper, voice wrecked.
“Please what?” He nudges my clit with the lightest brush of his thumb, just enough to make me jolt, make my breath stutter.
“Please,” I repeat, my body tightening. “Please touch me. I need it—I need you.”
His laugh is dark, rough with satisfaction. “Yeah? Need me to ruin this pretty little pussy? Make her feel good?”
“Yes,” I gasp.
He drags his fingers through my slick folds, spreading the wetness, groaning like he enjoys the mess I’ve made for him.
“Fuck, this cunt is begging for me. So swollen, so fucking ready,” he murmurs, rubbing slow, torturous circles around my clit. “And I haven’t even really touched you yet.”
I whimper, hips shifting against his hand, but he grips my thigh, holding me in place.
“Ah, ah, don’t be greedy. You take what I give you, nothing more.”
I moan in frustration, my head falling back against the pillows. He watches me, drinking in every little reaction, dragging this out just to watch me fall apart piece by piece.
Then, finally, finally, he presses his mouth to my soaked heat, his tongue flicking over my clit in one slow, devastating stroke.
I cry out, my back arching off the bed, my hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands. But he grips my wrists, pinning them to my stomach with one strong hand.
