The two words hung in the air, a challenge and a plea woven together. The two words hung in the air, a challenge and a plea woven together. Tell me to stop.
Helena's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the one she felt beneath her palm on his chest. His thumb was still on her lip, a point of scorching heat. Her violet-green eyes, wide and luminous in the dim room, held his. She saw the fear there, the desperate hope, the raw, untamed hunger that had finally broken its cage.
She didn't tell him to stop.
A sound escaped her, something between a gasp and a sigh of surrender. It was all the permission he needed.
The shy, retreating man dissolved. In a single, fluid motion that belied his gangly frame, Ilay spun her around. Her back met his front, a solid wall of unexpected strength. One long arm banded across her collarbone, pulling her snug against him, while his other hand came up to her throat. His grip wasn't harsh, but it was absolute, his palm warm and certain against her pulse point, his fingers splayed along her jaw. He held her there, caged, his breath hot against her ear.
His voice, when it came, was a low, rasping vibration that traveled straight through her skin to her core. "I want to see you squirt for me, pumpkin."
The vulgar, wanton words, spoken in that dark, honeyed tone, sent a violent shiver through her. Helena's head fell back against his shoulder, a soft moan escaping her as her eyes fluttered shut. The shift was seismic. The man who melted into backgrounds now commanded the entire universe of this darkened room.
His hold on her throat tightened almost imperceptibly, a possessive pressure that made her breath catch. "From now on," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, "you'll call me Sir. And you will say thank you for everything I give you. Do you understand?"
Helena could only nod, the movement slight against his restraining hand. The authority in his voice was a potent aphrodisiac, melting her usual bubbly confidence into a pool of liquid need.
"Use your words, little bunny," he teased, the mocking tone laced with a dark thrill. "I need to hear you say it."
"Yes," she breathed, the word shaky. "Yes, Sir."
A low, approving rumble sounded in his chest. "Good girl." His free hand slid down from her collarbone, over the thin fabric of her top, his long fingers tracing the curve of her breast. He palmed her, his touch firm and exploring, and Helena arched into it with a whimper. His thumb found her nipple through the material, rubbing it into a hard, aching peak.
"These belong to me now," he stated, his voice dropping to that intimate whisper. "Every sigh they pull from you, every tremor... it's mine." He pinched the sensitive bud, not hard, but with enough sharpness to make her jolt. A choked cry fell from her lips. "Aren't you a trembling little thing, little bunny?"
He didn't wait for an answer. His hand left her breast and slid down her stomach, over the waistband of her jeans. He pressed his palm flat against the denim, right over the throbbing heat between her legs. Helena bucked against his hand, a desperate, involuntary movement.
"So eager," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He applied a steady, circling pressure that made her see stars behind her closed eyelids. She could feel the hard length of his cock pressed against the small of her back, a blatant testament to his own arousal. The reality of it—that this was Ilay, her shy, quiet friend—was surreal, intoxicating.
His fingers worked the button of her jeans, then the zipper. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet room. He slipped his hand inside, past the lace of her panties. His touch was electric against her bare skin, his long fingers seeking the wet heat he found there. Helena gasped, her hands flying back to grip his thighs for support as her legs threatened to give way.
"Look at this," he breathed, his voice full of wonder and dark possession. He brought his glistening fingers up to her line of sight, the proof of her arousal clear in the dim light. "All for me. You're dripping for me, pumpkin." He brought his fingers to her lips. "Taste it."
With a shuddering breath, her eyes locked with his reflected in the dark window across the room, she opened her mouth. He slid his fingers inside, and the taste of herself, musky and sweet, exploded on her tongue. A fresh wave of heat flooded her.
"Now," he commanded, his voice a husky whisper close to her ear as he withdrew his fingers. "What do you say?"
Her voice was a broken, breathy thing. "Thank you, Sir."
His arm tightened around her. "Thank you for what?"
"Thank you... for letting me taste." The words were a humiliation and a thrill, making her clench around nothing.
"That's my good girl," he purred, his satisfaction evident. His hand returned to her jeans, dipping inside her panties once more. This time, his touch was more deliberate, finding her clit with an unerring accuracy that made her cry out. He traced slow, torturous circles, his pace agonizingly steady.
"I can feel how close you are," he whispered, his voice gritty. "I can feel your body begging for it. You're going to come for me. You're going to soak my hand. And you're going to thank me for it."
His words coiled tighter than his touch, a direct line to the tension building in her core. Her hips rocked against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of him. The world narrowed to the point where his skin met hers, to the sound of his ragged breathing in her ear, to the promise of an release she'd never experienced.
"That's it," he encouraged, his fingers moving faster now, applying just the right amount of pressure. "Let it go. I want to feel it. Now, Helena."
His command was the final key. A broken sob ripped from her throat as the orgasm crashed over her, a shocking and overwhelming wave.
