Page 85 of Dominion’s Collar

I take my time. Every pass of my hands covers more skin. Her stomach, where the muscles contract under my fingertips. The curve of her hips. Her inner thighs, where the muscles tense and release in a rhythm she can't control. I trace the edges of the thong without removing it, dragging one knuckle along the crease where fabric meets skin. Her hips roll toward my hand with a desperation that makes my blood thick.

"Color."

"Green." The word is barely there.

I pull the thong down. She lifts her hips to help.

She's not performing surrender and she's not hiding inside it. She's here. Eyes open. Knowing what I am. Choosing to stay.

I run one finger through her folds. She's slick, swollen, the heat radiating against my palm before I've done more than touch her. The sound that escapes her is guttural, pulled from somewhere she can't control.

I circle her clit with slow, measured pressure, and her body responds at a volume she can't modulate. I feel the tremor in her thighs against my wrist, the involuntary clench of her stomach, the way her breathing breaks apart when I shift the angle.

"Look at me," I say.

Her eyes open. The pupils are blown wide. Not blind trust. Harder. Trust with teeth.

I press two fingers inside her. She clenches around me, slick and hot, and I curl forward to find the spot that makes her spine lift off the table. Her hands stay flat where I put them. I can feel the effort that costs her in the tension of her forearms, the tendons standing visible from wrist to elbow.

I build her slowly. Withdraw to circle her clit with a wet thumb. Return. She's tight around my fingers, tighter each time I press back in, her body gripping me as if it can hold me there by force. Her breathing fragments into short, sharp sounds that sync with the rhythm I'm setting.

She starts to tighten. The contractions begin, the threshold close enough that I can feel it in the flutter around my fingers.

I stop. Pull my hand away entirely.

She lifts off the surface, chasing contact that isn't there. Her fingers curl against the leather. Every muscle in her arms tenses with the effort of keeping her hands flat.

She keeps them flat.

I wait. Her skin is flushed from her throat to her navel, damp with sweat, the pulse visible in her neck.

When I touch her again, the sensitivity makes her flinch, and the flinch becomes a moan that fills the room. I work her back to the edge with my thumb on her clit and two fingers curving inside her. She's tighter now, swollen, the arousal so intense that every touch registers at twice the amplitude. I can feel her pulse against my fingertips.

I stop again. Her eyes are wet. Her jaw is clenched. Her hands haven't moved.

"Good girl."

Her entire body shudders at the words.

I lower myself between her thighs. Her body tenses when she realizes what I'm about to do, and the tension is anticipation so acute it borders on fear.

"Still," I tell her.

My mouth finds her. She's swollen, slick, so sensitized from the denial that the first stroke of my tongue makes her jolt against the surface. The taste of her is salt and heat and something darker. I press my forearm across her hips to hold her down and take my time.

I use my tongue with the same precision I use my hands. Slow. Measured. I trace the length of her folds with broad, steady pressure, then close my lips around her clit and suck gently until her thighs tremble against my shoulders. Low, broken sounds that match the pace I'm setting, not the pace her body wants.

I slide two fingers inside her while my mouth stays on her clit, and the combination shatters her. Her hips buck against my forearm, and the cry that rips from her throat echoes off the walls of the private room.

"Hands," I say against her skin.

She slams them back to the table. I didn't see them move. I doubt she felt it happen.

I work her with my mouth and my fingers until she's shaking so hard the table vibrates. Her breathing is ragged, fractured. When I pull my mouth away, she chases me and her fingers curl against the leather.

I stand. Open my leathers. I'm hard enough that it hurts, and I've been hard since she knelt. The pressure has been building with every sound she's made, every involuntary clench of her body around my fingers.

The relief of freeing myself is immediate. What I want is inside the woman lying in front of me, and I've been denying myself as long as I've been denying her.