Page 112 of Unclench Me Softly

The pressure coils, sharp and full, the kind of heat that usually ends in a messy, glorious collapse.

“Too fast,” I whisper, already careening toward release. “I can’t…”

But just when I feel it building, just when the edge is near enough to tumble he pulls away.

“You can,” he says. “You will. But not yet.”

His breath fans over me, cool against the heat he just left behind.

I make a sound, something between a cry and a curse, and lift my hips instinctively, chasing it.

His hands press me back down. “You don’t chase. You don’t take. You receive. When I say.”

I nod. Because I can’t speak. Because my voice has dissolved into ash and wanting.

He builds me up with his mouth, his fingers, the expert curl of his tongue, bringing me to the very edge of orgasm, my body coiled like a live wire, then stopping with ruthless, deliberate control just as I start to fall.

He does it again.

And again.

Mouth, hands, rhythm, all of it perfect, all of it leading me to that dizzy, soaring high, and then gone.

Withheld.

Held.

Each time, I unravel just a little more, until I don’t know where I am anymore, only that I need. Desperately. Shamefully. Holy.

It’s not just denial, it’s worship.

It’s sacred refusal.

By the time he finally leans over me, his cock heavy and hard and pressed against my thigh, I’m so wet I can feel it on my skin, so desperate I think I might cry if he doesn’t give me more.

“You’ve done well,” he says, and his praise makes my whole body clench. “And now I want to feel you from the inside.”

He pushes in slowly, agonizingly slow, and I sob, actually sob, from the relief of it, from the fullness, from the ache of finally being allowed to feel.

He fucks me in long, even strokes, each one devastating in its precision. No wild thrusting. No chaos. Just absolute possession by rhythm, by command, by the cadence of his body teaching mine a new kind of prayer.

And still, he doesn’t let me come.

He watches me. He listens to every gasp, every twitch, every beg that slips from my lips no matter how hard I try to hold them back. And when he feels me start to tip, when I can’t stop the flood rising, he says, “Not yet.”

He pulls back, withdrawals, moving down my body again, and I scream.

I actually scream.

Because my climax was already there, and he took it away like it was his to keep.

Because it is.

He holds me open, fingers digging into my hips, and kisses me again, not my mouth, not now, my cunt, full and unrelenting, his tongue back on my clit with fast, brutal strokes that send lightning through my spine.

I shake.

I cry out his name.

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