She wasn’t the kind to beg. Not in life. Not in bed. For most of her years, she gave orders, not whispers. But tonight, something was different.
He teased her with a patience she hadn’t expected. Fingertips circling, lips grazing, always almost touching where she craved it most—but never quite. Her body arched, breath caught, thighs tightening with every passing second.
“Please…” she finally murmured, voice so low it barely escaped her lips.
He paused. Smiled. And leaned in close enough to feel the heat between her legs—but not touch.
“Say it again,” he whispered.
She should’ve resisted. Should’ve turned away, closed her legs, reclaimed the dignity that had defined her for decades. But instead… she gave in.
“Please,” she repeated—softer this time, trembling with need. “Touch me. There.”
And that was all he needed.
In that second whisper, she gave up everything: control, pride, restraint. And in return, he gave her exactly what she had been aching for.
Sometimes surrender doesn’t look weak. Sometimes it looks like a woman finally letting herself be undone.