I’d known all day he was close to breaking — every glance, every brush of my body against his had wound him tighter. It was delicious, watching him try to maintain composure even as I chipped away at it piece by piece. A casual touch to the back of his neck, a whisper grazing his ear, the way I'd let my fingers trail down his spine just long enough for him to second-guess whether it was accidental or intentional. He’d held himself together, barely, but I could feel the tension in him like a chord stretched too tight.

Now, with his wrists bound above his head and his breath already unsteady, I took my time sinking onto him. Slowly. Deliberately. Each inch dragged a sigh from me and a strangled sound from him, his muscles pulling taut as though restraint alone was the only thing keeping him from losing control immediately. I moved in long, teasing strokes — a rhythm designed to unravel him, to make him feel every moment he wasn’t allowed to move.

His eyes followed every shift of my body, wide and desperate, pupils dark and hungry. He bit down hard on his bottom lip, trying so valiantly to keep himself contained, as if that would earn him some imaginary reward. His chest rose and fell in quickening bursts, breaths hitching every time I paused at the base of him, holding him there, making him wait.

It was when I leaned forward, letting my lips graze his jaw, that I felt it — the exact second his control finally snapped. A raw, helpless sound tore from him as his hips surged upward in a reflex he couldn’t suppress, his release shuddering through both of us. His whole body trembled, every muscle firing at once, his breath breaking into ragged gasps that filled the room. I rode the tremor out with him, feeling the deep, pulsing waves roll through his body as I lifted myself from him, my own muscles still clamping tight as they quivered from the aftershock.

But I wasn’t finished with him.

Not even close.

I let him see that in the slow curve of my smile — wicked, knowing, the smile that always made him swallow hard. His head fell back against the pillow, throat exposed, breath unsteady. I stroked my fingers down his chest, tapping lightly over the places that made him twitch, then slid forward over his body with deliberate, sensual ease.

He watched me lift a knee beside his head, then another, his eyes widening with recognition and anticipation. The moment I settled over his mouth, I felt the shift in him — the little gasp, the nervous tension that always lit up his nerves before instinct took over. That hesitation was delicious, the last flicker of uncertainty before he surrendered entirely.

His protest melted into a hungry, desperate sound as he tasted me, as I pressed myself gently but insistently against his lips. The moment his tongue met me, instinct eroded every last ounce of hesitation. He devoured my pleasure with a fervor that made my breath catch, licking, sucking, chasing every movement, every drip, every soft grind of my hips as I rocked against his mouth.

I cupped his cheek, guiding him, encouraging him, teasing him with little shifts of my body that made him groan beneath me. My fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath stutter.

“How does that taste, my dear?” I murmured, voice low and thick with satisfaction.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

His mouth was too busy, too full, too dedicated to pleasing me. And I loved the reason why — loved the way he gave himself over to the moment, to me, without a second thought, lost in the sweetness of surrender and the taste of my pleasure.

And I had every intention of keeping him there a while longer.