Page 95 of At Your Mercy
Wes set the mug down on the nightstand, careful as ever, then straightened up with that maddening calm of his. “You won’t die of boredom,” he said.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
He gave a quiet hum. “Maybe a little.”
I leaned back against the headboard, letting the blanket fall a little lower over my hips. “You’re cruel, you know that?”
His gaze flicked down for just a second—barely noticeable, but enough. “You’re still healing.”
“Uh-huh,” I drawled. “You keep saying that. You’ve said that every day this week. Probably a few times a day.”
He smirked faintly, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. “Healing is more important than getting off, babydoll.”
I tilted my head, watching him. “Getting offishealing to me and my dick.”
“Ro,” he warned, his voice not as steady this time. His jaw flexed, that muscle just under the scar tightening like he was clenching it too hard.
“You’ve been hovering over me for a week,” I went on. “Feeding me, dressing me, holding me while I sleep—” I let my voice soften, almost a whisper. “I’m so backed up. Come on, pleaaase?”
He looked away, scrubbing a hand over his face. “We really shouldn’t—”
“I’ve been so empty,babe…”
His gaze snapped back to mine. For a second, the air between us shifted—thickened. The same look he always got right before he lost control flickered there, gone as fast as it came.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered.
“You like it,” I shot back, smiling faintly.
He shook his head, stepping closer until he was standing right beside the bed. “You don’t make it easy to do the right thing.”
My hand found his wrist where it rested on the mattress, fingers brushing over his pulse. It jumped under my touch. “You could sit down,” I murmured. “Just sit. You don’t even have to touch me.”
He hesitated, but he sat, the mattress dipping under his weight. I turned toward him, close enough that his breath brushed my cheek when he exhaled.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said again, though his voice had lost its edge.
“I am resting,” I whispered. “I can rest while you fill me up.”
He laughed quietly under his breath, the sound rough. “You’re such a fucking brat.”
I leaned forward, just enough that our foreheads almost touched. “If I’m a brat, how come I’ve gone an entire week without a spanking, hm?”
“God, Ro,” he breathed. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I smiled, barely. “Maybe I do.”
He let out a slow breath, and then, softer, he said, “Not tonight.”
I groaned loudly, getting frustrated that my desperation wasn’t being answered in turn. “At least sit there while I get myself off, please. My balls are going to explode if I wait any longer.”
He narrowed his eyes at me but relented. “Fine. But if I see you’re in too much pain, you’re stopping.”
“Bring me the lube?” I asked sweetly, giddy at the chance of coming. And possibly at goading him into fucking me.
Wes drank me up as I shimmied out of my sleep pants. It took him a second to refocus and get the lube from the drawer.
He handed the small bottle over, then settled down on the edge of the bed.
