Page 97 of When the Storm Breaks
Haiyden watches like he’s starving. A muscle ticks in his jaw. His hands fist at his sides, fighting the urge to take over.
And it makes me bolder.
I press harder, working myself open, his eyes burning over every movement. My body reacts instantly—too sensitive, too desperate.
His voice is gravelly. “Good girl.”
The praise sends heat straight to my core, winding me tighter.
He brings his fingers to my lips.
“Suck.”
The command shatters something inside me.
My lips part, pulling his fingers into my mouth—salty, warm,thick. I hollow my cheeks, sucking slow, letting my tongue swirl around them before releasing with a soft, wet pop.
He twitches beneath me, and I know he’s done waiting.
His hand shoots between my thighs, replacing mine, pushing past the places I’d touched without warning.
I jolt. My back arches. My moan escapes high and helpless.
“You’ve teased yourself enough,” he mutters, voice thick with possession and need.
His fingers work me open—so slow, too slow. Torturously fucking slow. A wicked, satisfied chuckle rumbles from his chest.
“Did that get you off, baby?” His tone is taunting. “Letting me watch you touch yourself?”
I nod, desperate, my nails digging into his shoulders. My head tips back. My mouth parts on a silent scream.
He leans in, pressing his lips to my throat, his voice rasping against my pulse. “You like putting on a show for me, don’t you?”
I shudder. But just when I think he’s going to let me break—he stops.
I gasp, my body jerking, frustration curling tight in my stomach.
No. No, no, no.
“Haiyden,” I whimper, my thighs clenching around his hand, chasing the friction he just stole from me.
He doesn’t move. Instead, he laughs. Sweet in a way that makes me want to slap him.
His fingers stay inside me, still. His lips brush my ear, voice smug. “Do you want to come for me, Calla?”
I nod, desperate. “Yes,” I breathe. “Please, Haiyden.”
The moment I beg, he rewards me.
His fingers start to move again. Too slow. Just enough to tease, to make me squirm.
My nails drag over his skin in warning, and he groans, like he likes that I’m losing control for him.
And finally, he gives in.
His fingers pump inside me—relentless, precise—like my body already belongs to him. He watches every shift, every reaction, reading me like a language only he speaks.
It used to bother me, how easily he could read me. How quickly he could undo me with nothing but a touch.
