Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
She shifts in my lap, and I realize I’ve been silent too long, lost in thoughts of all the ways I want to ruin her.
“Answer me,” I say, tightening my grip on her.
She leans closer, her breath warm against my ear. “I like that you notice things.”
Not what I expected. Not even close.
“Notice things,” I repeat flatly. “That’s what you’re going with.”
Her eyes flicker down, then back up to mine with that calculating look. “You notice when I’m uncomfortable. When I’m... affected.”
Jesus Christ. We’re in the middle of a sex party with her grinding on my lap, and she’s using words like “affected.” Like we’re discussing a fucking business proposal.
“Try again,” I say, voice tight. “And use real words this time.”
“Those are real words,” she counters, a hint of academic superiority creeping in.
“No. They’re hiding words. Say what you mean.”
She swallows, her throat working. “I like that you... touch me... in ways that are...”
“Are what?” I press, fascinated by her struggle. The woman who recited poetry about armor and connection can’t say she likes to be fingered.
“Pleasurable,” she finally manages, her face flushing deeper.
I almost laugh. “Pleasurable.”
This is unexpected. This hesitation. This... prudishness. Little Miss Take, who stares down mobsters and drives Lamborghinis and fucks against doors, can’t talk dirty to save her life.
I’ve found her weakness.
“I’ll make you a deal,” I say, cupping her breast in one hand while I slide the other one over her ass cheek. “I’ll cancel three more demerits if you tell me, in explicit detail, which part of fucking me you liked best.”
Her eyes widen slightly.
“But,” I continue, “if you use words like ‘pleasurable’ or ‘affected’ or any other academic bullshit, you’ll earn ten more demerits instead.”
She stares at me, processing the terms.
“Well?” I prompt. “Three demerits gone. You’ll be down to five. That’s almost your entire slate wiped clean. All you have to do is tell me what you liked. With the right words.”
“I liked when you...” She pauses, visibly struggling. “When you used your... fingers.”
“My fingers,” I repeat, moving one thumb to brush across her nipple through the shirt. “What about them?”
“They were...” Another pause. “Inside me.”
“And?”
“And it felt... good.”
I sigh dramatically. “Good. That’s the best you can do? Good? That’s a demerit. You’re up to nine now.”
Her lips press together in frustration. “Fine. It felt amazing when you... when you...”
“When I what?” I’m enjoying this far too much.
“When you touched my... down there.”
I actually do laugh this time. “Down there? What are you, twelve? That’s it, I warned you. All those demerits you erased in the car—back now. You’re at nineteen. Congratulations.”
“That’s not fair,” she protests, shifting on my lap. The movement sends a jolt of pleasure through me.
“Life isn’t fair, Little Miss Take. Now try again. What did you like about fucking me?”
She takes a deep breath. “I liked when you pushed me against the door.”
Better. “And?”
“And when you... when you...” She closes her eyes briefly. “When you put your fingers inside me.”
“Inside your what?”
“My...” She looks like she might combust from embarrassment. “My... pussy.”
The word sounds foreign on her tongue. Like she’s speaking a language she barely knows. But she said it.
“Good girl,” I murmur, and I feel her clench against me at the praise. Interesting. “What else?”
“I liked how you felt inside me. How... big you were.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“And what did you want me to do to you?”
“I wanted you to...” She leans forward, her lips at my ear again, voice barely audible. “Fuck me harder.”
The words send a surge of heat through me. Not because they’re particularly filthy—they’re not—but because of how much they cost her to say. How far outside her comfort zone she had to go. I can feel the tension radiating from her body, the slight tremble in her thighs as they press against mine.
This admission—these three simple words—represent a surrender of the careful control she maintains over herself.
It’s a big win.
Her breath is warm against my neck, quickened with the effort of her confession. The scent of her—that intoxicating mix of vanilla and something uniquely her—fills my senses. Her hair brushes against my cheek, soft as silk, and I resist the urge to wrap it around my fist and pull her head back to see the flush I know is spreading across her skin. The blush that always starts at her chest and climbs upward when she’s aroused or embarrassed—and right now, she’s clearly both.
I remain perfectly still, savoring this moment of her discomfort. Not because I enjoy her suffering—though there’s a part of me that does—but because I recognize the value of what she’s giving me. Each stilted confession, each reluctant admission is a piece of her armor being stripped away. And beneath that armor is something far more valuable than her body, something she guards even more fiercely: her true self.