Page 73 of Suite 7

A shaky breath. “Green, Sir.”

“Good girl.”

I build her slowly after that, fingers returning with the same precision, reading every sound she makes, every shift of her hips, every catch of her breath. I watch her climb — feel the moment her thighs begin to tremble, the tension gathering — and pull back before she can crest it. Step away entirely.

Her sound of protest is almost enough to undo my composure.

I reach for the vibrator. Her eyes track the movement and widen.

I turn it on and let the low hum fill the space between us. Then I trace it slowly down her throat, across her collarbone, circling each nipple with the same patience I used with my hands until she’s pulling hard against the restraints, her wrists straining. Down her stomach. The soft skin of her inner thighs. Everywhere except. I watch her face while she works out that I intend to be as thorough with this as I was with everything else.

“Please,” she begs. “Please, Sir, please⁠⁠—”

“Ask properly.”

“Please, Sir.” Her voice is wrecked, the composure entirely gone. “Please use the toy. Please touch me. Please, I need⁠⁠—”

I press it against her clit.

The sound she makes goes straight through me. Her spine arches hard off the Cross, the cool wood meeting her punished skin as the vibration hits, and I hold it exactly where it is and watch her face while she climbs — fast now, desperate, all that careful control stripped away — right to the edge⁠⁠—

I pull it away.

“NO — Sir, please, I’m begging you⁠⁠—“

The sound of her, wrecked and desperate, costs me something I don’t acknowledge. I set the vibrator down and cup her face with both hands, waiting until the frantic edge in her breathing slows enough that she can actually hear me.

“Look at me.”

She does. Eyes swimming, lashes wet, every wall she owns completely gone.

“This is what you missed. When you took it without permission.” I hold her gaze, let her feel the full weight of it. “This. The difference between taking and being given. Do you understand it now?”

Her breath shakes. “I understand, Sir. Please⁠⁠—”

I kiss her, and I take my time with it. Not the edge of her mouth, not a glancing thing — my hand finds the back of her neck and I hold her there, slow and deliberate, feeling the small sound she makes against my lips before she can contain it. I feel her strain toward me in the restraints, her body asking for more than her voice will let her say.

When I pull back her lips follow mine for half a second before she catches herself.

One hand stays cupped against her face, my thumb tracing her cheekbone. The other slides between her thighs, and I feel the full extent of what I’ve built — heat and want and the trembling of muscles held too long at the edge.

My fingers find her clit, circling with the same light pressure as before. No urgency. No mercy.

“When do you come?” I murmur against her ear.

“When —” Her breath stutters. “When you give permission, Sir.”

“And can you wait? Even now?”

“Yes, Sir.” Barely above a whisper. “I promise I’ll wait.”

“Prove it.”

I stroke with steady, relentless pressure — the same rhythm, over and over. Her hips buck against my hand, thighs trembling, a deep flush spreading down her chest and throat. Her mouth drops open. Every muscle pulls taut against the restraints, her wrists straining, her whole body fighting to hold the promise she just made me.

“Please,” she gasps. “Please, Sir. Please may I come. I’ve waited, I’ve obeyed, please, I can’t⁠⁠—“

I study her face. Sweat at her temples. Lips parted and swollen. The defiant spark that lives in her eyes has gone somewhere else entirely, replaced by something open and unguarded and completely trusting.