Chapter 5: The Wicked Game
Her fingers stayed knotted in my hair.
Not pulling. Not guiding. Just holding. A reminder that I was hers to move, hers to keep, hers to ruin if she wanted. The points of her nails pressed little half-moons into my scalp, and I felt every single one of them like a brand.
"I'm not gonna say it yet," she murmured.
Her voice had gone soft. Almost lazy. The kind of voice she used when she was winning and knew it, when she had me exactly where she wanted and could afford to take her time. It was worse than the sharpness. Worse than the bite. Because this was the voice of a woman who knew she didn't have to fight anymore.
"You know," she said.
Her hand slid under her tank top.
I watched. Helpless. Kneeling on her cold hardwood floor with my cock leaking onto my thigh, I watched her fingers disappear beneath the thin cotton. Watched the fabric shift and bunch as she found what she was looking for.
Her knuckles rolled slow beneath the cotton, dragging the fabric taut over the peak of her breast. The movement was unhurried—almost bored, almost mean. She was putting on a show and she knew it, watching my face with those brown-and-green eyes that caught the fairy lights like oil on water.
I stayed where I was. Knees pressed to the cold hardwood, cock thick and aching against my stomach, hands still clamped around her plush thighs like they were the only thing tethering me to the earth. I could smell myself—salt and want and something desperate—and I didn't give a single fuck.
"Look at you," she whispered.
Her thumb circled her nipple through the shirt. Once. Twice. The third time, her breath caught in her throat, a tiny, swallowed sound that made my mouth flood with spit. She bit her lower lip, teeth sinking into that soft pink flesh, and her hips rolled against nothing.
Then her fingers found my hair again.
Not gentle. Sharps points against my scalp, nails dragging little furrows that made my eyes flutter. She tilted my face up toward her, studying me like I was a mess she wasn't sure she wanted to clean up.
"Keep your hands on my thighs," she said. "That's where they belong."
I didn't answer. I didn't trust my voice. I just nodded—small, obedient—and let my thumbs trace the inner curves of her thighs, where the skin went softer, warmer, where her cunt was leaving a wet patch on the cushion beneath her.
She rewarded me with a smile. Sharp at the corners. Cruel in a way that made my cock jerk.
"So fucking pathetic," she murmured. "Sitting there like a good little dog waiting for a treat. You'd stay there all night, wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
The word came out wrecked. Hoarse. I didn't recognize my own voice.
She laughed—a low, breathy sound—and her hand went back under her shirt. This time I watched the whole thing. Watched her palm cup the underside of her breast, watched her fingers pinch and roll, watched her lips part and her head fall back against the wall.
Her neck was long. Pale. Exposed. I wanted to put my mouth on it. I wanted to bite down and feel her pulse against my tongue.
But she'd told me where my hands belonged. So I stayed. And then I moved.
My mouth pressed into her right thigh.
She jolted. A little gasp escaped before she could swallow it back, and her fingers tightened in my hair—pulling, now, not just holding. I didn't stop.
I kissed up the inside of her thigh, wet and open-mouthed, tasting salt and soap and the faintest trace of her. My tongue dragged a line from her knee to the soaked crotch of her panties, and I felt her tremble. Felt the fine muscles jump under my lips.
"Fuck," she breathed.
I bit down. Gently at first—teeth sinking into plush muscle, pressure without pain—then harder, until I knew it would leave a mark. She yelped, hips bucking forward, and her free hand cracked across the back of my head. Not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to let me know she was still in charge.
"Did I say you could bite?" she snapped.
"No."
"Then why the fuck are you biting me?"
I lifted my head. Her thighs were glistening with my spit, flushed pink where my stubble had dragged. The mark of my teeth was already darkening on her pale skin. Proof. Evidence. Something she'd see in the mirror tomorrow.
"Because you taste good," I said.
Her eyes widened. For half a second, the mask slipped—something soft and startled flickering across her face before she buried it. Then she was smirking again, cold and sharp, her fingers knotted in my hair so tight it made my scalp burn.
"You don't get to decide that," she said. "You don't get to decide anything."
"I know."
"So why are you still talking?"
She pushed my face back into her thigh. I went willingly. Eagerly. My tongue dragged up the same path, catching the salt of her skin, the faint sweetness of whatever lotion she'd used this morning. My lips closed around the mark I'd already made, sucking it darker.
Her breath hitched. Her hips rolled. Her fingers flexed against my scalp, guiding me higher, closer to where she actually wanted me—but never quite letting me get there.
"You're so fucking good at this," she whispered.
Her voice cracked on the last word. Betraying her. The wetness between her thighs had soaked through the cotton of her panties, leaving a dark patch I could smell—musk and warmth and something richer underneath. My cock jerked against my stomach, leaking fresh precum, and I groaned against her skin.
"Look at you," she said again. "So desperate. So fucking needy. You'd do anything I asked, wouldn't you? Anything at all."
"Yes."
"Say it."
"Anything."
She pulled my hair. Hard. My neck arched back, throat exposed, and she leaned down until her mouth was a breath from mine.
Her lips were parted, her pupils blown wide, and I could see the vein pulsing in her throat.
She held me there—suspended, aching, my scalp burning from her grip—and I could feel her breath coming in shallow bursts against my mouth. The fairy lights caught the wet sheen on her lower lip. She'd bitten it raw.
"Close," she whispered. "So close."
I didn't move. Didn't blink. My hands stayed locked on her thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft give of muscle just above her knees. She was trembling—fine, barely-there shivers that ran through her whole body and into mine.
Then she let go of my hair and sat back.
The loss hit me like a slap. I swayed forward, chasing her warmth, and she laughed—that low, mean sound that made my cock twitch against my stomach. She was still watching me, eyes half-lidded, fingers hooked in the hem of her tank top.
"Stay," she said.
I stayed.
She stood up. Slow. Deliberate. The cushion sighed beneath her as she rose, and I had to tilt my head back to keep her in view. From this angle she was all long lines and soft curves, her waist flaring into hips that made my mouth water, her thighs still glistening with my spit. She planted her feet wide and looked down at me like I was something she'd scraped off her shoe.
"I'm going to take this off," she said, fingering the cotton. "And you're going to watch. You're not going to touch. You're not going to move. You're going to sit there with your pathetic hard cock and fucking watch."
I nodded. My throat was too dry for words.
She smiled. Then she began to lift the shirt.
Inch by inch. That's how she did it. The cotton dragged up her stomach, revealing pale skin and the soft dip of her navel, the faint trail of dark hair below it. My eyes tracked every millimeter. My breath stopped somewhere in my chest.
She paused at her ribs. Just below her breasts. The shirt bunched there, and I could see the shadowed underside of them—a hint of curve, nothing more. She watched me strain forward, and her smile sharpened.
"Eager," she murmured. "That's cute."
Another inch. The fabric slid higher, catching on the swell of her breasts. I saw the first pale curve of flesh, so white it seemed to glow in the amber light. Round and full despite their modest size, sitting high on her chest like they'd been carved from something softer than marble.
Then the shirt cleared them entirely.
I forgot to breathe.
They were small. Perfect. Soft in a way that made my hands ache to hold them, youthful and firm, with a slight natural droop that only made them more inviting. Pale as moonlight, so translucent I could trace the faint blue rivers of veins beneath her skin. The undersides caught the fairy lights and glowed warm amber, and I could see the weight of them in how they moved when she shifted—a gentle sway that made my mouth flood with saliva.
Her nipples were dusty rose. Tight pebbled buds that stood out from the soft brown-pink of her areolas, which were small and neat and perfectly round. They looked like something you'd put your mouth on and never want to stop. They looked like something that would fit perfectly between my lips.
Her skin was flawless. Not a single mark or blemish on the pale expanse of her chest, except—there, just above her left breast—a tiny freckle I wanted to press my tongue against. The curve of each breast was gentle and elegant, sloping down to a soft swell before tucking back under. Small enough that I could probably cover one entirely with my palm.
I wanted to. I wanted to feel the weight of her in my hand, to trace my thumb around that dusty rose nipple and feel it stiffen, to lower my mouth and suck until she moaned. My cock was leaking steadily now, a wet patch spreading on my thigh, and I couldn't have cared less.
She watched me look.
Her head tilted, curls tumbling loose around her shoulders. Her lips curved—not a smile, exactly, but close. Something softer, more curious, like she was genuinely interested in what I was seeing. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and her nipples pulled tight in the cool air of the apartment.
"Mouth open," she observed. "I've never seen you look so fucking dumb."
I tried to speak. Nothing came out. My hands were shaking against her thighs, nails biting into the fabric of my own jeans. My whole body was a single pulse of want.
She leaned forward. One hand braced on the wall beside my head, bringing her breast closer—so close I could see the fine texture of her areola, the tiny bumps crowding around the nipple. The other hand came up and tapped my chest. Sharp. Twice.
"Breathe."
The command cut through the fog. I gasped—air rushing into my lungs in a ragged, desperate pull—and my vision swam back into focus. She was still there. Still naked in nothing but her panties. Still looking at me with those knowing eyes.
Hahahaha.
She laughed. In my face.
The sound rattled around inside my skull. High. Mean. Delighted. She threw her head back and let it pour out of her, throat working, tits swaying with every shake of her shoulders.
I stayed on my knees and watched her come apart with laughter at my expense, and my cock throbbed so hard I saw spots.
"You should see your face," she wheezed. "Fucking priceless. Like I just handed you a million dollars and then set it on fire."
I swallowed. My throat felt scraped raw. "You done?"
"Not even close."
She pushed off the wall and crossed the six feet of hardwood between us. Slow steps. Hips rolling. Tits bouncing with every footfall, that soft, heavy sway I couldn't tear my eyes from. She stopped in front of me and looked down, and the amusement in her face had melted into something darker. Hungrier.
"Open your mouth."
I did.
She hooked two fingers under my chin and tilted my head back until my neck ached. Her thumb dragged across my lower lip, pressing down, opening me wider. She studied the inside of my mouth like she was considering what to put in it.
Then she pulled her hand away and laughed again when I whined.
"Pathetic," she said. "Absolutely pathetic. You'd let me do anything to you right now, wouldn't you? Anything I wanted."
"Yes."
"Say it."
"Anything."
Her eyes flashed. She liked that. She liked it way more than she'd ever admit, and I filed that away for later, for whenever later might come.
She liked it way more than she'd ever admit, and I filed that away for later, for whenever later might come.
Then she sat back down.
The mattress exhaled under her weight. The whole apartment seemed to hold its breath. Her tits swayed with the motion, heavy and pale and perfect, and I watched them bounce once, twice, until they settled against her ribs like they'd always been there. My mouth went dry. My hands were still locked on her thighs, thumbs pressed into the warm give of muscle just above her knees, and I could feel her pulse through her skin.
My hands were still locked on her thighs, thumbs pressed into the warm give of muscle just above her knees, and I could feel her pulse through her skin.
That steady thrum under my palms. The proof that she was just as wrecked as I was, no matter how still she sat. No matter how bored she pretended to look.
She leaned back on her elbows. The movement pushed her tits together, soft and pale and glistening faintly with sweat, and I watched a single drop slide down her sternum. Her nipples were still tight. Still that dusty rose I wanted to close my teeth around.
"You're staring," she said.
"I know."
"Stop it."
"No."
Her eyebrows shot up. For a second she just looked at me—genuinely surprised, like I'd broken some rule she hadn't finished writing. Then her face did something complicated. Annoyance. Amusement. Something warmer underneath that she smothered before I could name it.
"Bold," she said. "For someone on his knees."
"You like it."
"I hate it."
"You're lying."
She kicked me. Not hard. The ball of her foot connected with my shoulder, and I barely swayed. Her toes curled against my collarbone and stayed there, pressing in, testing my balance. Testing me.
"I'm not lying," she said. "I hate everything about you."
"You hate my mouth on your thighs?"
She didn't answer.
"You hate how wet you got when I bit you?"
Her foot pressed harder. Her jaw tightened. The little muscle under her birthmark jumped, and I wanted to put my tongue there, on that dark mark on her chin, and feel it move when she spoke.
"You talk too much," she said.
"Make me stop."
It came out rougher than I meant. Not a challenge. A plea dressed up as one. She heard the difference—I saw it in how her eyes narrowed, how her breath caught, how her thighs shifted just slightly apart on the cushion.
She stared at me for a long moment. Then she reached down and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her panties.
My heart stopped. Literally stopped. The world went very small and very quiet, and all I could see was the thin strip of black cotton, already dark with her wetness, and her hands, and the slow drag of fabric over her hips.
She pulled them down an inch. Just an inch. Then she stopped and looked at me.
"These," she said, "are the only thing standing between you and what you want."
I couldn't speak. My mouth had gone completely dry.
"You don't get them off." She let the waistband snap back against her skin. The sound cracked through the quiet like a gunshot. "You don't get to touch. You don't get to pull them aside. You get exactly this."
"Exactly what?"
"This."
She spread her legs.
Not wide. Just enough. Enough that the soaked crotch of her panties pulled tight, outlining the shape of her cunt in stark relief. The cotton was translucent with her arousal, clinging to her lips, and I could see the dark seam of her slit through the fabric. I could smell her. Musk and salt and something faintly sweet, thick in the air between us.
My hands moved before I could think. They slid up her thighs, over the plush muscle, until my thumbs brushed the crease where her legs met her hips. She didn't stop me. She just watched, eyes half-lidded, as I leaned forward.
"You're going to eat me through the fabric," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"You're going to keep your hands on my thighs. You're not going to move them. You're not going to touch anything else."
"Yes."
"If you do, I stop. I put my clothes back on and you go home with blue balls and a lesson."
"Yes."
She smiled. Slow and sharp and pleased. Then she lay back on the pillows, curls fanning out around her head, tits rising and falling with each breath, and she said the thing I'd been waiting for.
"Go."
I went.
My face pressed into her cunt through the cotton. The moment my mouth touched her, everything else disappeared. The apartment. The fairy lights. The half-eaten cake on the plates beside us. All of it gone. There was only the heat of her, the wet soak of the fabric, the smell that flooded my nose and made my eyes roll back.
She tasted like salt and want. Like the wet spot she'd left on my thigh earlier, but deeper. Richer. I dragged my tongue up the length of her slit, pressing hard against the cotton, and she shuddered beneath me. Her hips bucked up off the cushion. Her hands found my hair.
And then she went wild.
Her nails raked across my scalp. Sharp, stinging lines that made me groan into her cunt. She pulled, she clawed, she dragged furrows down the back of my neck and dug trenches across my shoulders. Pain exploded along every nerve, and I loved it. I loved every fucking second of it.
I ate her like I was starving.
My tongue worked against the fabric, drinking her through the cotton, chasing the taste of her with an animal desperation I hadn't known I possessed. The soaked material gave way under my mouth, molding to the shape of her lips, and I could feel her opening for me—slick and hot beneath the thin barrier. I sucked the fabric clean, then dove back for more.
She was loud.
Not words. Sounds. High, keening noises that broke apart in her throat and tumbled out into the air. Her heels dug into my back, spurring me on. Her nails found new places to ruin—my ear, my jaw, the soft skin behind my neck she knew was sensitive from that one time I'd told her. She remembered. Of course she remembered.
"Fucking—" She choked on the word. "Don't stop. Don't you fucking stop."
I wouldn't have stopped if the building caught fire.
I pressed my face harder, nose buried in the cotton, breathing her in. The fabric was so wet now it was practically transparent, and I could see the pink flush of her cunt through it. Could see her clit, swollen and peeking out from under its hood, begging for the pressure I couldn't give her directly.
So I gave her what I could. I closed my lips around the fabric where her clit pressed up, and I sucked. Hard. Rhythmic. Relentless.
Her scream cracked off the walls.
Her nails ripped through my scalp again—a whole row of fire across the top of my head—and I felt something wet on my neck that wasn't sweat. Blood, probably. Mine. Good.
I wanted her to mark me. To carve her name into my skin with those perfect nails. To leave evidence tomorrow, something she'd see and remember how I'd made her come apart.
My hands cupped her ass.
I didn't think. I didn't plan. I just needed more. More of her against my face, more pressure, more contact. My palms slid under the plush cheeks and lifted—holding her up, tilting her hips toward my mouth, opening her wider.
She gasped. A raw, broken sound. Her thighs clamped around my ears, and for a second I couldn't hear anything but the roar of my own pulse and the wet drag of her breath.
"Put me down," she managed. "Put me—you don't get to just—"
I sucked harder.
Her protest died in her throat. She arched off the mattress, body bowing like a drawn bow, and her hands scrabbled at the wall behind the bed. Looking for purchase. Finding nothing. Her nails scrabbled against the plaster, leaving grooves, and she cursed—a long, filthy stream that would've made a sailor blush.