Page 89 of The Anchor Holds

He smiled wickedly. “Oh, Calliope. One of the things I love most about you is that you’ll always need to be punished because youdon’t fucking listen to me.” His voice was peppered with the rage from earlier. “It frustrates me beyond measure.” His nostrils twitched as he drew in a long inhale. “But I fucking love it.”

My skin tingled at the knowledge of what I was doing to him, how I’d wormed my way under his skin. It was a relief, since I felt Elliot in my marrow.

“No belt,” Elliot decided, clicking his tongue.

The other punishment, then. Not letting me come for the entire evening. A quick glance at the clock told me it was only 7:00. How long would the evening last? Until 10:00? Midnight? Surely, I’d be able to handle that.

Elliot reached inside the waistband of my leggings, cradling me where I was craving him, parting me so he could run his fingers along my clit.

My entire body shook, an orgasm already creeping in. Only a few more strokes and I would detonate, I was that close. All the adrenaline, I guessed. All I knew for certain was that I needed a release. Needed to feel alive somehow.

But just as rapidly as Elliot had touched me there, his hand was gone.

He didn’t even look at me, just turned his back and walked into the kitchen.

I stayed where I was, pulse thrashing as I struggled with the prospect of another second without climaxing, let alone a handful of hours.

Elliot hadn’t told me to do anything, so I just stood, watching as he filled a glass, grabbed my pills from the counter then shook a couple into his hand.

“I’m going to make you a sandwich to ensure you don’t take these on an empty stomach. Then, when you’re done, you’re going to take off all your clothes and get in the shower with me.”

His tone told me there was no room for negotiation, and hell if I could even come up with an argument. I merely nodded.

Relief. Despite the urgent wantonness I needed to alleviate, I mostly felt relief that I was going to be taken care of. For the night.

I’d take care of myself tomorrow.

Slay dragons tomorrow.

“Please,” I whimpered.

My hair was still damp from the shower, though Elliot had mostly towel dried it. He’d washed every inch of my body, lathering the sensitive peaks of my nipples but moving away from them the second my breathing accelerated. He’d been careful not to get my bandage wet, although it was slightly awkward.

I’d let out a low moan as his deft fingers worked shampoo and conditioner into my hair, blinking at how much dirt went down the drain. I hadn’t realized how caked in mud I was until I’d come out of the shower clean.

Elliot had done the same with the towel as he had with the soap, drying every inch of my body like he was going to be graded on it. He had kneeled in front of my pussy, leaning forward to inhale deeply, hands on the back of my thighs as he did so.

My entire body swayed at the intimate act, his nose brushing right against my sensitive clit, the barely there touch already enough to thrust me to the edge of climax. But he’d leaned backagain, gazing up at me with a sinful smile. He’d parted my legs in order to fully expose me, for him to brush his fingers upon the skin that felt swollen and hungry.

My hand clamped onto his shoulder, bracing myself before I toppled over. Elliot used his other hand at my hip to steady me.

Using his fingers to part me, Elliot laid his lips on my clit, tongue ghosting over the bud.

My nails dug into the skin of his shoulders, likely hard enough to hurt, to leave a mark, but I couldn’t control myself. I felt wild. Desperate. My muscles were wound so tight, I thought something in me might snap if I didn’t come.

“Please,” I gasped.

Elliot’s mouth left me, and I almost cried. “Please?” he repeated. “Please what, Calliope?”

I licked my lips, hating and loving the man in equal parts for his exquisite cruelty. “Please let me come.”

Begging. I wasbegginghim. Except he was the one on his knees.

Elliot’s fingers dug into my hip, the others playing with me almost casually. But I knew every ministration was precise, him expertly knowing my body, understanding just where, with what pressure, to touch me.

“I like that.” He leaned in again, mouth moving with torturous softness. Not enough pressure. “Hearing you ask for it.”

I wanted to scream in frustration.

---