Page 48 of Tricked By Jack
His gaze catches on my body like a hook. I pretend not to notice, keeping my eyes half-closed as my hand drifts to my breast. My fingers trace the curve methodically, like I’m following a diagram rather than desire.
I circle my nipple once, twice, applying precise pressure until it hardens beneath my touch. The gasp that escapes my lips is calculated, pitched to carry across the room.
Jack shifts in his chair. “What are you doing?” His voice is rougher than before, the words scraping out of his throat.
Rather than answering, I pinch my nipple between thumb and forefinger, hard enough to make myself inhale sharply. My other hand slides down my stomach in a slow, deliberate path. Since this is strategy and not arousal, I’m not wet yet.
I part my folds anyway, peeling myself open for him like a specimen under glass. Let him think I’m offering up some fragile part of myself; in truth, I’m mapping his reactions like a chart, marking each flicker in his eyes as if it’s a landmark on a map I’ll use to find my way out.
“What does it look like?” I finally reply, voice pitched low. “I’m bored. And you’ve left me with limited entertainment options.”
He crushes the cigarette into the ashtray, the movement too forceful. “You think this is a game?” But he doesn’t look away, doesn’t tell me to stop.
My fingers move in mechanical circles, clinical and detached, like I’m performing a medical procedure on myself. The sensation is distant at first, pressure without pleasure, contact without context.
I keep my eyes on Jack, watching as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. His pupils dilate. His breathing changes. Power shifts in incremental degrees.
“Not a game,” I murmur, allowing a slight tremor into my voice. “A need.”
He stands, moving to the foot of the bed where he can watch me more clearly. The bulge in his sweatpants is unmistakable now. “A need,” he repeats, his hand drifting to adjust himself. “And you think I’ll just watch while you take care of it?”
I tilt my head, letting my hair cascade over one shoulder. “Isn’t that what you want? All you do is watch me. Why stop now?”
Something flashes in his green eyes. Maybe he recognizes the manipulation, but it doesn’t matter. Primal wins. His hand moves to the waistband of his sweatpants, pushing them low enough that I catch a shadowed glimpse of the base, the heavy weight of him in his palm.
I hate the way my pulse jumps. Hate more that he probably sees it in the way my breathing shifts.
He doesn’t give me a second to pretend I’m not staring. “Look at it,” he commands slowly. “This is what you’ve been teasing for three days, Little Bride. Every sigh, every glare, every fucking breath in that cage has kept me so fucking hard.”
Jack strokes himself once, twice, keeping most of his cock hidden by his grip. My eyes track the movement without permission. I tell myself it’s analysis, but my clit throbs and wetness coats my folds for reasons that have nothing to do with strategy.
“Tell me, Dr. Death, have you been missing my cock? Imagined what it would be like to taste it?”
My mouth curves in the barest smile. “You think pretty highly of yourself.”
He doesn’t take the bait. “Don’t lie. Not when you’ve already parted your thighs for me.” His gaze drops to my fingers. “Circle slower. I want to see you beg without using the word.”
I obey, but I make my fingers lazier than they need to be, keeping my expression blank. If he wants something from me, he can work for it.
My breath still hitches, the friction making me shift in spite of myself. He notices—of course he notices—and smirks. “That’s it. Let it hurt a little. Makes the relief sweeter when I let you come.”
“Let me?” I echo, my tone dry but thinner than I’d like.
He squeezes himself, the sound of skin on skin indecent in the quiet room. “You’re not touching yourself for you. You’re doing it for me. Say it.”
I meet his stare, lips pressed together in silent refusal.
He stops moving altogether. “Say it, or I stop.”
My fingers pause, my clit throbbing in protest at the sudden stillness. I hate that he’s right, that I want the motion back enough to give him the word.
His grip loosens, and this time he drags his hand all the way down, baring himself completely. I freeze as his entire length comes into view. There, on the underside of his shaft, is a Jacob’s Ladder—seven silver rungs climbing the underside of his cock. I blink like I’ve missed something obvious, because I did.
He fucked me with that in front of an audience, and I was too high on panic and adrenaline and shame to register any of it. I didn’t feel the metal. Or maybe I did, but I was too preoccupied to really notice. God, how didn’t I notice? I want to remember how it felt, and I hate that I can’t.
“If you’re going to touch yourself for me, then stop playing, doc,” he says, his fist closing around his cock. “No more clinical little circles. Make it real. Make me believe it’s the first honest thing you’ve done since I locked you in that cage.”
I comply, pressing harder, circling faster. My body responds despite myself, a treacherous warmth building between my legs. The pressure starts as nothing, just friction and wet sound—but then it grows. I tell myself I can ignore it. I don’t. My body betrays me one pulse at a time.
