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“What do they want to know?” she asks, voice strained.
“Everything. Where the evidence is, who else knows, what you’ve told the prosecution?” I lean closer; my lips brush her ear. “But most of all, they will want to break you. Make you theirs.”
I slide my hand between her thighs. “Like I’m going to make you mine.”
I take my time, methodical in my approach, a man with all the time in the world despite the countdown ticking in the back of my mind. I map her body, learning which touches make her gasp, which make her moan, which make her beg.
“Where are the files hidden?” I ask, my fingers teasing her entrance without penetrating.
“I don’t, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she pants, playing along.
“Wrong answer.” I pull away entirely, letting the cool air hit her heated skin. She groans at the loss. “Let’s try again.”
I push her to the edge again and again, building her arousal with relentless focus, only to deny her release at the crucial moment. Each time she approaches orgasm, I pull back, leaving her trembling and desperate.
“Tell me about the witnesses,” I demand, my fingers curled inside her, finding that spot that makes her back arch off the bed.
“There... there aren’t any...” she gasps.
“Good girl,” I murmur, my voice rough with desire. I shift my position, trailing kisses down her body. “Sometimes they’ll use pleasure you can’t resist,” my breath heating her inner thigh, before sinking my teeth into it, pulling a cry from her mouth. “The kind that makes you forget everything except sensation.”
I lower my head, circling her clit lightly with my tongue before sucking her clit into my mouth. Her reaction is immediate and powerful, back arching off the bed, a strangled cry escaping her lips as pleasure courses through her. I grip her hips firmly, controlling her movements as she tries to press closer, desperate for more contact. I set a rhythm designed to drive her wild without pushing her over the edge. Moments of focusedattention on the most sensitive spots alternating with teasing retreats that leave her gasping.
“Focus,” I command against her heated skin. “Remember who you belong to.” I feel her thighs trembling against my shoulders, her body responding to every touch with increasing urgency. Her breathing fractures into desperate pants and half-formed pleas.
When I finally pull away, she’s trembling, incoherent with need.
“Please,” she gasps. “I can’t. I need.”
“Not yet,” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Not until you’ve earned it.”
I shed my clothes and position myself above her. The sight of her, bound, blindfolded, utterly at my mercy, sends a wave of possessive need through me that’s almost overwhelming.
“Sometimes interrogation becomes... intimate,” I explain, my voice rough with hunger. “This is when you’re most vulnerable, when your body’s needs override your training.”
I rub the head of my cock up and down her slit, coating myself in her wetness before sliding into her slowly, deliberately, savoring her gasp as our bodies join. My weight settles over her, pinning her to the mattress, reinforcing her captivity even as I claim her most intimately. I establish a rhythm, studying her reactions carefully to calibrate my approach.
Each movement is adjusted for maximum impact, sometimes slow and deep, letting her feel every inch, sometimes hard and fast, overwhelming her senses. All designed to bring her to the edge without letting her fall over. I study her responses like a hawk, learning which angles make her breath catch, which pace makes her strain against the restraints, which depth makes her moan my name. She feels so fucking good.
“This is how they break the most resistant agents,” I murmur against her ear. “Not with pain, but with pleasure so intense it becomes its own form of torture.”
When she approaches climax, I stop completely, denying her release. “Focus,” I remind her, my voice firm despite my own ragged breathing. “This is how they’ll break you. They’ll use your body against you.”
I withdraw almost completely, then drive back in with deliberate force. Her back arches, a moan escaping her lips.
“Who sent you?” I demand, maintaining the interrogation scenario while driving back into her again.
“No one,” she gasps, playing along despite her obvious arousal. “I was alone.”
“Wrong answer.” I still my movements entirely, denying her the friction she craves. Her hips buck upward, seeking contact, but my weight holds her in place.
“Please,” she finally begs, all pretense abandoned. “Please, Cole.”
The interrogation intensifies, each technique more intense than the last. I move from deep, measured thrusts to teasing her with just the tip, finding what breaks her concentration. The professional facade I’ve maintained starts to crack as my desire takes over.
“Tell me who you belong to,” I demand, my voice lower, darker than before. My movements become more possessive, more commanding, as I thrust into her with renewed purpose. “Say it. I want to hear you admit it.”
She resists, part of her still clinging to the pretense of training. I increase the pace, the intensity, watching her face as she struggles between stubborn resistance and overpowering sensation.
