Page 93 of The Knotheads Next Door
But just as I start to relax into the sensation, his hand withdraws, leaving me aching and desperate.
"We'll come back to that," he says matter-of-factly, as if he's making notes on a spreadsheet. "Let's see what else we can discover."
As the exploration continues, he finds every sensitive spot, every place that makes me gasp or arch or whimper, and then moves on without providing the satisfaction I'm craving. It's a systematic approach to driving me out of my mind.
By the time his hand finally slides between my thighs, I'm trembling with need, sweat beading on my skin despite the cool morning air. And I know that I must have sweated my hair out of its curls and straight into the frizz station. But who cares, when you’ve got an alpha making you feel like this?
"So wet," he observes, his fingers sliding through my arousal with interest. "Fascinating how responsive you are."
Maybe I should be embarrassed at his detached commentary but instead it makes me clench around nothing, desperate for more contact.
"Please," I beg, my hips trying to chase his fingers. "Wells, I need—"
"What do you need?" His voice is perfectly calm, as if we're discussing the weather.
"Your fingers. Inside me. Please."
"Like this?" He slides one finger inside, shallow and teasing.
"More," I gasp. "Please, more."
"More fingers? Or deeper?"
"Both. Everything. Please."
He adds a second finger, pressing deeper, and the relief is both immediate and nowhere near enough. I need so much more, but he seems content to maintain this pace.
"You're very responsive here," he notes, crooking his fingers to hit that perfect spot inside me. The sensation makes me cry out, my back arching off the bed.
"There," I pant. "Right there, please."
"I see." He hits the spot again, more deliberately this time, watching my reaction with scientific interest. "And if I do this?"
His thumb circles my clit while his fingers work inside me, and the combination nearly undoes me. I'm right on the edge, so close to the release I desperately need—
And then he stops.
Completely withdraws his hand, leaving me gasping and desperate and so close to coming I could cry.
"Interesting," he says, "You were about to climax."
"Yes," I say through gritted teeth. "I was."
"But we're not ready for that yet."
The casual denial makes me want to scream. Or beg. Or both.
"Wells, please—"
"We're going to try that again," he says, his hand returning to its previous position. "I want to see if the response is consistent."
This time he builds me up more slowly, his fingers working with devastating precision. He's learned exactly how to touch me, exactly what rhythm and pressure will drive me wild. When I'm balanced on the precipice again, trembling and desperate, he stops.
Again.
"Please," I beg, tears of frustration gathering in my eyes. "I can't—I need—"
"You can," he assures me, his voice carrying that same calm authority. "And you will. Because I say so."
