Page 95 of Push My Buttons
Something twists in my chest, a complicated tangle of emotions I can't quite name. There's affection, certainly, for this brilliant, focused man who can lose himself so completely increation. But there's anger too, simmering beneath the surface. He can dive this deeply into code, can dedicate this level of concentration to his work, but he couldn't be honest with me about the stalker. Couldn't trust me with the truth.
And yet, watching him like this—completely unguarded, muttering to himself, fingers tapping that familiar rhythm against his thigh when he pauses to think—I feel a different kind of heat building. There's something undeniably attractive about seeing the normally controlled Jace so completely absorbed, so vulnerable in his focus.
I move silently across the room, my decision made before I'm fully conscious of it. Standing before him, I watch as he continues to work, oblivious to my presence. The headset covers his eyes completely, leaving him blind to the real world.
"Increase atmospheric density by point-three," he murmurs, hands moving through the air. "Add volumetric fog to the lower valley..."
Without hesitation, I pull my sleep shorts down my legs and step out of them, leaving me in just my oversized t-shirt. The air is cool against my bare skin as I move forward, placing one knee on either side of his thighs.
Jace stiffens immediately, his hands freezing mid-gesture. "Wren?" His voice is uncertain, slightly disoriented from being pulled so abruptly from his virtual world.
His hand rises to remove the headset, but I catch his wrist before he can complete the motion. I press a finger against his lips.
"No," I whisper, pushing the word out close enough to the headset that I know he can hear me through it.
I feel him shudder beneath me, his body responding to my voice even with the confusion. His hands lower slowly, uncertain but yielding to my command.
I shift my weight, settling more firmly onto his lap. Through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, I can feel him hardening against me. I rock my hips deliberately, creating friction that draws a sharp intake of breath from him.
"Wren," he says again, his voice strained. "What are you—"
I press my finger more firmly against his lips, silencing him. "Shhh."
My free hand slides down his chest, over the flat plane of his stomach, to the waistband of his sweatpants. I tug them down just enough to free his cock, already half-hard and thickening rapidly in my hand.
I continue to grind against him, feeling the slick heat building between my thighs as I slide my wet pussy along his length. His hands come to rest on my hips, fingers digging into my skin as he tries to guide my movements.
"Please," he breathes, the word ragged with want. "Let me see you."
His hand moves toward the headset again, and I grab his wrist, pinning it to the couch beside him. "No," I whisper again, the word barely audible but firm.
I position myself over him, the blunt head of his cock pressing against my entrance. Then, with excruciating slowness, I sink down onto him, taking him inch by inch until he's fully seated inside me.
The stretch is exquisite, a burning fullness that makes my breath catch. Beneath me, Jace groans, his head falling back against the couch, exposing the vulnerable line of his throat. His fingers flex against my hip, his other hand still pinned by my grip.
I begin to move, setting a maddeningly slow pace. Each rise and fall is measured, deliberate, forcing him to feel every drag of my body against his. I watch his face—what I can see of it belowthe headset—cataloging every flicker of pleasure, every twitch of restraint.
"Wren," he gasps, his voice breaking on my name. "Please, I need to—"
I cut him off by rising almost completely off him before sinking back down in one fluid motion. His words dissolve into a groan, his back arching beneath me.
Again, his free hand moves toward the headset, seeking connection, seeking control. Again, I catch it, pinning both his wrists now to the couch on either side of him.
"No," I say for the third time, the word stronger now, more confident in my throat.
I can feel the frustration building in him—not just sexual frustration, though that's certainly part of it, but a deeper need to connect, to see me, to participate fully in what's happening. The headset makes him blind, dependent entirely on my control, unable to anticipate or direct our pleasure.
Good. Let him feel what it's like to be kept in the dark. To want something he's denied.
I continue my torturous pace, alternating between slow, grinding circles of my hips and deep, deliberate strokes that take him to the hilt. His breathing grows ragged, his muscles tensing beneath me as he approaches the edge.
I can feel my own release building, a tight coil of heat low in my belly. But this isn't about my pleasure—not entirely. This is about power. About control. About making him understand what it felt like to be kept in ignorance, to have choices taken away.
When I feel him getting close—his breath shortening, his hips jerking upward to meet mine—I slow even further, tightening around him but barely moving. He makes a sound of pure frustration, somewhere between a groan and a whimper.
"Please," he begs, the word raw and broken in a way I've never heard from him before. "Wren, please."
I lean forward, my lips brushing the shell of his ear, and whisper a single word:
