Chapter 3: The Art of Making Her Wait
"You're so easy," she said.
The words hung in the air between us, sharp and smug. She was still perched on top of me, thighs bracketing my hips, her hair a wild tangle of black curls around both our faces. Her chin was tilted up, that defiant little gesture she did when she thought she'd won something.
I didn't give her the satisfaction.
Instead of grinding up into her, instead of grabbing her hips and taking what she was so obviously offering, I slid both hands under the back of her tank top.
Palms flat. Fingers spread wide.
Skin on skin.
The warmth of her lower back hit my palms like a furnace. Soft. Softer than I'd imagined, and I'd imagined plenty. The curve of her spine dipped under my thumbs, a shallow valley between the rise of muscle on either side.
Her breath hitched and she moaned into my touch. Deep.
Not the sharp, performative sound she'd made before. This one came from somewhere lower. Somewhere honest. It vibrated against my palms, a tremor that rolled through her spine and settled in her hips.
She arched. Her back curved like a bowstring, chest pushing forward, and the movement pressed her tits right into my face. The thin cotton of her tank top did nothing to hide the shape of them. Soft. Small. The kind of breasts that fit perfectly in a palm, that begged to be cupped and squeezed and worshipped.
I didn't touch them.
Instead, I took the moment.
My mouth found her neck.
She tasted like salt and coconut and something faintly sweet underneath. Sweat from the walk. Shampoo from this morning. And beneath that, something muskier. Something that was just her.
I dragged my lips up the column of her throat, slow and deliberate. Her skin was warm, flushed from the kissing, from the grinding, from the way she'd been grinding her cunt against my cock like she was trying to get off through sheer stubbornness.
She gasped. Her head fell back, giving me more access, and I took it.
My hands slid up her back, palms flat, fingers spread wide. They found the curve of her shoulder blades, the dip between them, the hard ridge of her spine. I held her upright, pressing into her back, keeping her steady while my mouth worked her throat.
Teeth grazed her pulse point.
She shuddered.
Her hands flew to my hair. Fingers tangled in the short strands, gripping tight. So tight it hurt. The pointy edges of her nails scraped against my scalp, little pinpricks of pain that sent sparks shooting down my spine.
It felt exquisite.
"Fuck," she whispered. The word came out broken. Split down the middle.
I sucked at the spot where her neck met her shoulder. Hard enough to leave a mark. Hard enough that she'd see it tomorrow and remember exactly who put it there.
She jerked. Her hips bucked against mine, grinding down, and the friction made me see stars. My cock was so hard it ached. Pressed against her cunt through two layers of denim, twitching every time she moved.
"You're—" she started.
I cut her off with my teeth on her earlobe.
She made a sound I'd never heard before. High and thin and desperate, like a violin string about to snap. Her whole body convulsed. Hips bucking, thighs clenching, nails digging into my scalp.
I felt her earring with my tongue.
Small and cold. A tiny silver hoop I'd seen a hundred times, never thought twice about. But now, with her writhing on top of me, it was the most erotic thing I'd ever touched. I rolled it between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, tugging gently.
She bucked. Hard.
Her cunt slammed down against my cock, and I groaned into her ear. The sound was involuntary. Raw.
I couldn't help it.
The giggle slipped out before I could stop it—low, breathy, muffled against the shell of her ear. Her earring was still caught between my tongue and teeth, that tiny silver hoop rolling against the wet heat of my mouth. I felt her pulse hammering through the thin skin behind her jaw, felt the way her whole body went rigid at the sound.
She hated it.
She hated that I was laughing. Hated that I was enjoying this. Hated that she could feel my smile pressed against her ear like a brand.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" she hissed.
Her nails dug into my scalp. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough that I definitely deserved it, but she didn't pull away. Didn't shove me off. Just held on tighter, her thighs clenching around my hips like she was trying to crush me between them.
I tongued her earring again.
A tiny clink of metal against teeth. The cold kiss of silver against the warm muscle of my tongue. And beneath all of it, the rapid flutter of her pulse, beating so fast it felt like a bird trapped under her skin.
She shuddered.
A full-body tremor that rolled from her shoulders down to her hips. Her cunt ground against my cock—involuntary, desperate—and the friction punched a groan out of my chest.
"You're such a—" she started.
The insult died in her throat.
Because my hands were still moving. Still gliding under the back of her tank top, palms flat against the warm skin of her lower back. Tracing the dip of her spine. Following the curve of her ribs with my thumbs, slow and deliberate.
She squirmed.
Not away. Into me.
Her hips rolled forward, grinding her clit against the hard line of my cock through our jeans. The pressure had to be brutal—denim on denim, no give, no relief—but she didn't stop. Just kept rocking, seeking friction like she couldn't help herself.
"You're so fucking soft," I murmured against her ear.
She made a sound.
Something between a snarl and a whimper. Her hips stuttered, losing their rhythm for half a second before picking it back up. She was trying to glare at me—I could feel it—but her head was still tipped back, her throat exposed, her breath coming in short, hot bursts against the ceiling.
"I hate you," she said.
The words cracked on the last syllable.
I smiled against her neck. Let my teeth graze the spot I'd already marked. The bruise was forming—a dark smudge on pale skin that would bloom purple by morning.
"No, you don't."
"I do. I fucking despise you."
Her hands moved.
Slid down from my hair. Over my shoulders. Palms flat against my chest, fingers spreading wide like she was trying to memorize the shape of me through cotton. I felt her touch like a brand. Every fingertip left a trail of heat that sank into my skin and spread outward, lighting up nerves I didn't know I had.
She found the hem of my t-shirt.
Tugged.
Just once. Just enough to make her intention clear.
Her fingers slipped underneath.
Cool. So fucking cool against the furnace of my stomach. It was a shock that punched the breath right out of my lungs, a sudden cold front meeting humid summer air. Her hands were always cold. I knew this. I'd watched her wrap them around coffee mugs a hundred times, seen her tuck them under her thighs when we sat on park benches in October.
But knowing it and feeling it were two different things entirely.
Her cool fingers were a brand against my warm body.
I groaned the second she touched me.
The sound spilled out of my throat before I could swallow it. Low and ragged, with an edge I didn't recognize. It filled the small space between us and hung there, trembling.
Confidence flowed into her body with that sound.
I felt it happen. The subtle shift of her weight, the way her spine straightened, the way her fingers stopped trembling. My groan was fuel, and she inhaled it, and something inside her caught fire.
Her nails found something to hook onto and she dragged down. Once.
That single stroke was devastating.
Four points of pressure—sharp, deliberate—raking over my ribs. My skin burned in their wake, four parallel lines of fire that faded too quickly and left me aching for more. My muscles seized. My hips jerked off the couch, bucking up into her weight.
It was my turn to buck, to go wild.
I was full-on panting into her neck now. Short, hot bursts of air against the bruise I'd left on her throat, my chest heaving, my heart slamming against my ribs like it was trying to break free.
She was still.
Breathing similarly harder into my ear.
That was the only evidence she was affected. The single, shaking exhale that ghosted over my earlobe and sent shivers cascading down the back of my neck. Otherwise, she was a statue. Perfectly still on top of me. Her cunt pressed to my aching cock, her tits barely an inch from my mouth, her face hovering above mine in the dim golden glow of the fairy lights.
I could see her.
Every detail. The dark smudge of her birthmark against her chin. The hollow of her throat, silver with moon-pale skin. The way her curls had fallen forward—some clinging to her cheeks, others swaying with her breath. Her eyes were wide. Watching me. Cataloguing every twitch and tremor like she was memorizing a language she'd never spoken.
Then her lips curled.
That smirk. God, that fucking smirk. The one she'd worn the first night we met, when she told me my taste in music was garbage and that she'd rather eat raw kale than listen to my playlist. She was wearing it now, sitting on top of me, her cool fingers still spread across the skin of my stomach.
"You're pathetic," she whispered.
The word landed like a slap. Sharp. Dismissive. Designed to wound.
I felt it hit. Felt the sting of it bloom across my chest, hot and prickling. But underneath the sting, something else stirred. Something darker. Something that had been coiled in my gut since the moment she'd pulled me through her door.
Those words made me hornier.
She felt it.
My cock twitched against her cunt. Hard. Unmistakable. A pulse of heat that traveled through denim and denim, straight into the seam of her thighs. Her smirk faltered. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for confusion to flicker across her face.
She knew.
She knew what her cruelty did to me. Knew the way her sharp edges carved something open inside my chest. Knew that every time she called me pathetic, every time she spat venom and waited for me to flinch, I only wanted her more.
It baffled her.
I could see it in the way her brows drew together, the way her lips parted like she was about to ask a question she didn't have words for. She was turned on and she hated it. Hated that her meanness made me hard. Hated that she could feel it, that thick line of pressure against her core, and hated that her own body responded in kind.
Before she could retort.
I growled into her ear, low and rough, the words scraping up from somewhere primal.
"Take off my shirt."
The words left my mouth before I could cage them. Low. Rough.
A growl scraped up from somewhere beneath my ribs, where the ache of wanting her had coiled into something feral. It was a raw, animal sound that vibrated against her ear, and I felt her breath catch in response.
For a split second, she went completely still.
I couldn't see her face—my eyes were closed, my forehead pressed to her temple, my mouth still hovering against the shell of her ear. But I felt the hesitation ripple through her body. The way her fingers paused against my stomach. The way her thighs tightened around my hips, not with desire but with something closer to fear.
Then she moved.
Her hands grabbed the hem of my t-shirt and yanked. No preamble. No teasing. Just raw, hungry need as she pulled the fabric up my chest, over my shoulders, past my head. I lifted my arms to help her, and she took advantage of the movement to shove me back against the couch cushions.
My shirt was gone.
The cool air hit my bare skin like a splash of water, raising goosebumps along my arms and chest. The fairy lights cast strange patterns across my body—amber and rose, flickering shadows that danced over the planes of my stomach and the lean muscle of my shoulders.
She didn't pull back.
We were barely apart.
Her face hovered inches from mine, her breath hot against my lips, her eyes roving over my exposed chest like she was seeing me for the first time. Her pupils were blown so wide they'd swallowed the rings of green and gold, leaving only dark, hungry black. A flush had crept up her neck, staining her pale cheeks pink, and her lips were parted, swollen from kissing me.
She was still on top of me.
Still straddling my hips, denim pressed to denim, the heat of her cunt a brand against my cock. But her hands were free now, and they found my chest.
Her palms landed flat on my pecs, fingers spreading wide. Cool against the heat of my skin, just like before. She dragged them down slowly, deliberately, nails scraping through the fine dusting of hair that trailed from my chest to my navel.
I hissed through my teeth.
She didn't stop.
She was back.
The hesitation was gone. That flicker of fear, that moment of vulnerability—vanished like it had never existed. In its place was something predatory. Something hungry. Something that had been locked away for too long and was finally, finally being let out.
Her turn.
Her lips found my collarbone first.
Soft at first. A whisper of a kiss against the bone, her breath warm and damp. Then her teeth. Sharp and sudden, biting down just hard enough to make me jerk beneath her. Not hard enough to break skin. Just hard enough to leave a mark.
I groaned.
The sound spilled out of me unbidden, low and ragged, vibrating through my chest and into her mouth. She hummed in response, a satisfied little noise that I felt in my bones.
Then she moved lower.
Her mouth dragged down my sternum, leaving a wet trail of heat in its wake. Her tongue flicked out to trace the ridge of my ribs, the dip between my pecs, the taut line of muscle above my stomach. She kissed every inch of skin she could reach, and when kissing wasn't enough, she used her teeth.
Nipping. Biting. Marking.
Her only agenda was leaving evidence of herself all over my body. A map of bite marks and bruises, a claim staked in pain and pleasure.
Her nails found my sides.
They scraped down my ribs in a slow, deliberate drag. Four points of pressure on each side, sharp enough to sting, sharp enough to make me arch off the couch. I felt the skin break in thin, shallow lines—not bleeding, just raised and red—and the burn of them sent a shudder rolling through my entire body.
"Fuck," I breathed.
She didn't respond with words.
She just kept going.
Her mouth found my chest, and she bit down. Hard. The pain was electric, a bolt of lightning that shot straight from my chest to my cock. I jerked beneath her, hips bucking, a guttural sound tearing out of my throat.
She laughed.
Low and dark, muffled against my skin. Her breath was hot on the wet mark she'd left, and when she pulled back to admire her work, I caught a glimpse of her face.
She was flushed. Her curls were a disaster, tangled and wild around her face. Her lips were red and swollen, slick with spit. And her eyes—those impossible eyes—were burning with something that looked almost like triumph.
"You're so loud," she murmured.
Her voice was a rasp. Low and rough and dripping with condescension. Like she was disappointed in me. Like she expected better.
I didn't care.
She could call me every name in the book, and I'd take it. I'd take it and beg for more, because every word out of her mouth was a gift, even the cruel ones. Especially the cruel ones.
She kissed my chest again.
Lower this time. Her mouth traced the line of my stomach, tongue dipping into my navel, teeth grazing the trail of hair that led down to my jeans. Her hands gripped my waist, fingers digging into the muscle, holding me still while she explored.
I was panting.
Full-on panting, chest heaving, breath coming in short, ragged gasps. My hands fisted in the couch cushions, knuckles white, nails digging into the worn fabric. I wanted to touch her. Wanted to bury my hands in her hair and pull her up and kiss her until neither of us could breathe.
But I didn't.
I just sat there and took it.
Moaning. Groaning. Panting.
Every sound she pulled from me was involuntary, dragged up from somewhere deep and primal. I couldn't have stopped them if I tried. She was wringing them out of me like water from a cloth, one after another, until my throat was raw and my chest was heaving.
Her nails found my hips.
She hooked her fingers under the waistband of my jeans, just enough to scrape the skin beneath. Her nails dragged along the bone, slow and torturous, and I felt my cock twitch against her thigh.
She noticed.
Of course she noticed.
"That's pathetic," she said.
But her voice cracked on the last word.
She was affected. She had to be. Her breath was coming faster now, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that didn't match my own. And when she shifted her weight, grinding her cunt against my thigh, I felt the heat of her through her jeans—hotter than before, wetter than before.
She was soaked.
For all her talk, for all her cruelty, she was just as desperate as I was. Just as hungry. Just as wrecked.
I opened my mouth to say something.
Something smart. Something cutting. Something that would wipe that smug look off her face and replace it with the vulnerability I'd seen earlier.
She didn't give me the chance.
Her mouth crashed into mine, swallowing whatever I was going to say. Her tongue forced its way past my lips, claiming me, owning me. Her teeth caught my lower lip and pulled, dragging a moan from somewhere deep in my chest.
Her hands slid up my chest.
Over my shoulders.
Around my throat.
She didn't squeeze. Just held. Fingers wrapped loosely around my neck, thumbs pressing into the hinge of my jaw, tilting my head back. The pressure was light—a suggestion, not a threat—but the implication was there.
She could hurt me if she wanted to.
She could do anything she wanted to.
And I would let her.
I would let her do whatever she wanted, take whatever she needed, use me however she saw fit. Because this—this was better than anything I'd ever had. Better than the careful touches of past lovers, better than the polite intimacy of relationships that never went deep enough.
This was raw. Real. Unpolished.
This was her.
Her teeth found my collarbone again, biting down harder than before. I felt the skin break—just a little, just enough to sting—and I groaned, long and low, my hips bucking up into hers.
She pulled back just far enough to look at me.
Her lips were stained pink—with my blood or her own, I couldn't tell. Her eyes were wild, pupils blown so wide they'd almost swallowed the color entirely. And on her face was an expression I'd never seen before. Something between hunger and wonder. Something that looked almost like fear.
"You're a mess," she whispered.