Page 77 of The Beast Who Bought Me
“Cold?” he asks. His hands linger just above my hips, and his eyes are fixed on my face, reading every micro-expression.
“No,” I say. “Not cold.” I let my thighs part in clear invitation. Let my head fall back again against the marble edge of the tub.
His hand replaces the sponge. Wraps around me under the water, and the touch is sure, maddeningly slow. My breath catches, and I have to grip the edge of the tub to keep from arching into his palm like a cat in heat. We both feel it, my body responding to him.
I close my eyes, but he leans closer, close enough that I feel his breath against my ear. “Look at me.”
I force my eyes open to meet his dark gaze, and it’s like looking into a storm—dangerous and consuming. His pupils are blown wide. His breath is faster than it should be. But his hand doesn’t make another movement.
“You want it, you ask for it,” he says.
“Please, Dami,” I breathe. “I want it. Touch me.”
“You’re hard,” he says, running his thumb under my ridge until I groan. “And you’re my responsibility now, so I guess that means I need to do this for you, too. Right?”
“Right,” I gasp out.
His other hand traces my jaw, possessive and gentle. “Remind me who you belong to, Caligula Clemenza.”
The words should make me revolt. They just make me harder, and we both know it.
“Say it,” he commands.
I stay silent.
He lets me go completely. “Say it.”
“I belong to you,” I mutter.
“Again. Louder, this time. Make me believe you finally learned your lesson.”
“I’m yours, Dami.”
“Good boy.” He takes me in hand again and moves faster now, so the pleasure builds like a tide I can’t fight. When he touches me like this, everything falls away except the sensation. I can’t tell what’s real anymore except his hand on my cock, the sloshing water, the feel of his breath on my wet skin.
His thumb presses hard into my slit, and I bite my lip to stop from crying out. Then his fingers tighten, a slow, deliberate squeeze. He’s so good at this, so sure, that it almost doesn’t seem fair. I’m at his mercy.
Almost.
“You gonna come for me, Caligula?” he murmurs, and the use of my full name, usually so hated, sends a jolt straight to my balls, sharp but sweet.
“Yeah,” I gasp.
“Not yet.” He backs off immediately, loosening his grip, letting the sensation ebb. I groan in frustration, my hips pushing up into nothing. “You come when I say you can come.”
The water sloshes as I shift. “Dami?—”
“Quiet.” His free hand presses on my sternum, a clear command to stay still. “Last thing you need is to get all worked up.”
“I’ll be good,” I promise. “Please...”
He starts again. Slower this time, a maddening, teasing rhythm. He knows what he’s doing, the bastard. He knows exactly how to push me to the edge and then pull me back, leaving me hanging. If this is going to end in frustration like it did at the opera?—
“Dami,” I groan, “seriously?—”
He leans into my ear. “You’re a greedy little slut, aren’t you?”
My cheeks burn, but my dick throbs. I nod, not even caring about the admission.
