Play Me Real (Play Me 4)

I turn my head, try to get him to meet my eyes, but he’s up already, walking away. “What’s wrong?” I ask, when I can finally force the words out of my aching throat. “Why’d you stop?”

“I’m thirsty,” he answers and I watch in disbelief as he fills a glass with ice. Then adds water. And finishes with a twist of lime. He takes a long sip, then holds the glass up. “Would you like some?” he offers.

Would I like— “No. I’m fine.” I wait for him to return to me, to pick up where he left off, but he stays where he is. Slowly drains the glass of water. Pours himself a second one.

I don’t understand what’s going on here, but my brain is still too fuzzy for me to think clearly. I try to figure it out anyway, but there’s no viable explanation. Nothing that makes any sense except that maybe he really is thirsty.

And so I wait, head bowed, body trembling, arms still tied behind my back. I wait and I wait and I wait for what feels like hours. For what feels like forever.

Eventually, he finishes the second glass of water. I know because I hear the clink of the glass as he puts it down on the granite. Hear the sound of his feet brushing against the thick carpet. And then, finally, hear his breathing—slow and rich and steady—inches from my left ear.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers to me as he reaches a hand out to caress my cheek. “So goddamn beautiful sometimes it hurts just to look at you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him even as I lean my face into his touch. “It’s all just genetics.”

“You’re right,” he tells me, his thumb sweeping over my lips once, twice, before pushing gently inside my mouth. I suck him deep, taste myself on him as I swirl my tongue around and around his thumb. “I’m my father’s son. And a bigger bastard never walked the face of the earth.”

He pulls his thumb out and I whimper at the loss. At least until he skates it over the slight bump of my chin to my neck. Down my neck to the center of my chest. Down my chest to my belly button. Over my belly button to my abdomen. Down my abdomen to my mons. Down my mons to—yes, finally, my sex.

He thrusts inside roughly, no warning, no prelude, nothing but his thumb thick and strong inside me.

I gasp at the feel of him, spread my legs to give him better access. And then nearly cry in relief when he bends and sucks one of my nipples deep into his mouth. I’m still so aroused that it doesn’t take long to get me right back where I was before he stopped, nerve endings screaming in agony, brain drowning in a thick, warm lassitude, body all but begging for relief.

Sebastian stokes the fire with his mouth, his hands, his voice. He whispers to me as he runs his lips over my abdomen, as he presses kisses to my inner thighs, as he licks at the drenched folds of my sex. Dirty, filthy things that make me tremble. That make me ache.

I’ve been so aroused for so long now that my whole body hurts. My every muscle is tense, my every nerve ending crying out for relief. And still Sebastian takes his sweet time. Still he pushes me to the brink of climax, the brink of madness.

I’m reaching for it, my whole body straining for an orgasm that I feel like I’ll die without. I’m close, so close. So, so close.

And then Sebastian’s gone again. And I’m alone.

“Please,” I beg as tears well up in my eyes, as sobs rip from my chest. “I need—”

“I know what you need,” he tells me and I nearly collapse in relief. He isn’t touching me but he hasn’t left me, either. He’s right behind me, so close that I can feel the vibration of his voice against my too-sensitive skin.

And still he doesn’t touch me. Still, he doesn’t comfort me.

The pain of it is almost too much to bear and I nearly fall to my knees with it. Nearly bend—nearly break—under the weight of my own desire.

But in the middle of it all, in the middle of the agony and the lassitude and the dark, dark confusion, I have a moment of absolute clarity. And that’s when it hits me.

This is about more than getting off. About more than keeping me on the edge. This is about tonight and how out of control Sebastian feels. It’s about Dylan and Janet and his father. It’s about the helplessness he felt when his best friend died, the helplessness he still feels.

This is Sebastian controlling me because he can’t control what happened. About hurting me because he’s hurting. About using me to stave off the pain of everything that came before.

Knowing that, understanding that, I wouldn’t have this any other way.

From the moment we met, Sebastian has taken care of me even when I didn’t know I needed to be taken care of. Here, tonight, it’s my turn to take care of him. My turn to give him what he needs. And if he needs this, the pleasure and the pain, the control and the cruelty, then I’m willing to give it to him.

It’s a little bit of a shock to realize there isn’t much I’m not willing to give him.

And then he’s touching me again, taking me back up to the edge and leaving me there.

Again and again he does it. Again and again I let him. Until his every touch is a razor blade against my nerves, his every kiss salt rubbed into a raw and aching wound. Until I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t be without pain. Without wanting him and being denied.

The eighth time he goes to step away—maybe it’s the seventh, maybe the ninth, I’m so lost in the maelstrom of my own suffering tha

t I’ve lost count—I break. My knees go out from under me and I hit the floor hard as sobs—deep and raw and ugly—rip through me.