
“Wait,” she says, but her hips don’t slow, still rolling against his in a rhythm that makes his fingers curl into the sheets. Her voice is soft, almost a sigh, not a command, and when he freezes, she lets out a laugh, low and warm, as she leans in to brush her lips against his ear. “Not like that,” she murmurs, and he feels the smile against his skin before she pulls back, her movements picking up again—slower this time, but just as deliberate.
This is the game she plays, the one that keeps him on edge. Telling him to pause while her body says keep going, making him second-guess every instinct until he’s leaning into the confusion, hungry for whatever she’ll give. He knows now not to take her words at face value. “Wait” isn’t a stop sign. It’s a tease, a way to make the moment stretch, to let the tension build until it’s almost too much to bear.
Her hands slide up his chest, her nails scraping lightly through the hair there, and she says it again: “Wait.” But her eyes are bright, her lower lip caught between her teeth, and he knows she’s not unsure. She’s savoring it—the way his breath hitches, the way he tenses, the quiet plea in his gaze. This is power, wrapped in a lie of hesitation, and she’s wielding it like a pro.
He lets her play, lets her set the pace, because he knows the payoff will be worth it. When she finally leans in, her lips crashing against his, her movements sharp and urgent, he grins against her mouth. “Tired of waiting?” he asks, and she laughs, unapologetic. “Just getting started,” she says—and he believes her.