Chapter Text
She is late.
He waits, sitting at the edge of the bed, back straight and arms crossed against his chest.
Same time next week?
Those were her words exactly one week prior-the same words that he has replayed in his head every day since. And yet here he sits, heavy with impatience, glaring at the door every few minutes. His body is restless and he feels foolish anticipating her arrival. It is already fifteen minutes passed the time she had arrived last week. Why hasn't she come yet?
She lied.
A mix of emotions blossom and boil within him at the thought: anger, disappointment, shame, betrayal. Betrayal? He has no reason to feel betrayed; she did nothing so horrendous as to warrant a sense of betrayal. He pushes that feeling aside, shuts it out. The other emotions? Those are justified.
Same time next week?
She won't come again. She got what she wanted. He forces himself not to think about what it is she wanted exactly or why, stills his foot when he notices it tapping with agitation.
Another five minutes pass and he hates himself for waiting.
Why? Why hasn't she come? Why would she lie to him? For a brief moment he feels a sudden surge of panic. Has something happened to her? She is not the type to lie, is she? He doesn't know the answer to that; he doesn't know her very well. He doesn't think he knows anyone very well. He stops his thoughts there. No. She lied and she won't be coming back. She played him for a fool, used him as a means for ridicule.
This is over.
He stands abruptly. He is angry at her, angry at the situation she has pulled him in, angry at himself-for willingly playing along from the beginning; for growing more comfortable with her every visit. He roughly pulls off his shorts and yanks up the bed covers, climbs underneath, and glares at the door once more before turning his back to it.
But his mind won't allow him rest.
He lies thinking-wondering what her plan was from the beginning, searching for an explanation for her actions. Was it all to humiliate him? Was it her attempt at weakening him? Had she been conniving the whole time behind a mask of acceptance and comfort? He both painfully believes and helplessly rejects the thought.
The battle within his head halts when he hears the door to his bedroom open and then click shut a short moment later.
He lies still, feeling the bed sink as she joins him under the covers.
He doesn't turn when he feels her hand on his shoulder, refuses to give in so soon after experiencing the mayhem she had put his mind through. But he is quick to submit a few minutes later after her mouth has found the side of his neck and her hand has reached over to trail fingertips just above the waistband of his underpants. He tries to forget the turbulent contemplation that had troubled him only moments ago. He knows he'd be lying to himself if he said he did not want this again, attempts to ignore the rising sense of relief her arrival brings him. Once again he feels betrayed. But this time, he understands that it is his own body that commits the treachery-his own mind.
He finally responds when she slips her fingers under the elastic; he turns over to face her, the motion forcing her to remove her hand before she can touch him. When he sees her face he quickly looks away, her relaxed smile bothering him. He resorts to mouthing at her neck so as to keep the image out of his sight.
He knows why she is here. He knows what she wants.
And he will give it to her. Because as much as he hates the truth of the fact, he wants it too.
Leaning back again, he places his hand on her breast, enjoying the soft fit of it under his palm, before trailing it down her body- finally confident in these actions-and touches her over the thin fabric of her undergarment. Her legs open up to him as she takes the pleasure readily. He uses his other arm to lift her nightshirt up to her chest to reveal her breasts, but his movements are hindered by his awkward position on his side. She takes over and grabs the bottom of the light material, arches her back, and pulls it off herself.
He pauses the caresses of his other hand to sit up and tug off her underwear-again, she helps by lifting her hips off the bed-only briefly distracted by the glide down her smooth legs. The action causes the covers to fall off of their bodies and fold messily at the foot of the bed. He carefully drops back down to begin licking at a breast while his fingers find her warm and wet between her legs.
He wraps his lips around her nipple to gently suck as he adds more pressure with his fingers below. She hums and turns on her side so they face each other, making him pull his head away. She lifts her leg and bends it to rest over his thigh, allowing his hand better access to continue his provision.
He has nowhere to look but to her face; her eyes are closed as she wears a relaxed smile, completely at ease with him in this bed. He still doesn't know if he feels more angry or more comforted by the notion that she does not seem to view him as a threat, no matter how many times they have done this.
He watches as she lifts a hand to his chest and draws it up to curl around the back of his neck, playing with the short hairs there. The sensation is pleasant and he feels his own lids falling closed.
They lie there for a while-his hand slowly building her up as hers breaks him down.
But her fingers eventually tighten their grip in his hair-a sensation he didn't expect to enjoy as much as he does-and her breathing begins to match the stuttering of her hips as she approaches her orgasm. He keeps with his pace and her hips buck out of her control as she climaxes and he doubles his effort to keep his hand against her, working her through it, prolonging her pleasure. He softens his touch when she releases the grip behind his neck to instead grasp at his wrist.
He allows himself to appreciate the sheen of sweat glistening on her flushed skin as she slowly regains her steady breath.
He wonders if she will be satisfied with just this, or if she will want to continue-if she will want to take it as far as they did the previous week.
He realizes that he wants to.
She is still holding his wrist when he lifts his hand up to his mouth. She lazily opens her eyes at the movement and watches as he closes his lips around his finger, wetting it with his tongue. She lets go when he moves his hand back down between her legs.
It feels just as it did before: warm, wet, tight. He remembers how it felt to be inside her, like nothing else existed in that moment but their connection. He wants it again, wants it now. But he restrains himself, reminds himself to be patient. His mind may have betrayed him but he prides himself on his control over his body.
And so he waits, gently moving his finger as she shifts her hips around it.
How long will this continue? Will she continue to visit him as she likes until...until when? Until she grows bored with this routine? Until death? He thinks about the foretold future, the apparent doom that draws nearer with each day's passing. Does she fear its arrival?
He watches her, takes in the look of relaxed concentration on her face and the widespread flush across her skin, her body open and pliant to him.
She has no reason to fear the future, to fear a forthcoming death. He will not allow it to happen. He will stop it. Any coming threat will be no match against him. She should know that.
His free hand takes hold of one of hers, drawing it toward him and placing it between his own legs. She is taken aback by the sudden motion but quickly rights herself, stroking him through his underpants so that he begins to grow hard under her touch.
She tugs at the fabric and he draws his hand away from her heat to remove the material from his body. She bends her leg over him again when he lies back down before she wraps her hand around him and continues her stroking with more pressure.
He rests his hand high on the curve of her thigh, idly rubbing his thumb in circles against her skin.
He doesn't notice that his eyes have fallen shut again until they suddenly widen in shock.
She bit him.
Before he can react, she does it again, immediately laving her tongue against the flesh of his neck where her teeth had been.
He stills, unable to find reason behind her action. She had teased him with her teeth before, always gently, softly. But this time she used some force, enough to cause pain if he had been a weaker man. Did she intend to provoke him? He feels her teeth again and twitches in her hand when she bites down.
He realizes he enjoys the sensation.
She thumbs at his tip, spreading around the wetness that has begun to gather there. She releases her clamp on his neck only to instantly bite the skin again, sucking at the flesh as it grows tender under her mouth. Her strokes on his erection become stronger, faster, and he stops his hand before it clenches around her soft thigh. He remembers his momentary weakness last week, his slight lapse of control-a rare, disgraceful occurrence. The bed frame's shape was imperfect still; he hadn't been able to bend it back into place just right.
He clenches his hand in a fist but allows it to remain where it was, her skin warm under his curled fingers. Her hand doesn't slow on him and every bite on his neck cracks the command he holds over his body. His pleasure is rising, he can feel the climax approaching, but it doesn't feel right. He wants something more. He wants to be inside of her.
She makes a small sound when he grabs her wrist with a little too much strength. He loosens his grip and holds himself still, breathes slowly, reins his body back under his control. Carefully, he rolls them and hovers above her as she now lies on her back, looking up at him curiously. He examines her wrist. There is no damage; she had only been startled.
He lets go and trails his hand along her arm and over her shoulder to her collarbone. Only a whisper of a touch from his fingertips down her breasts and her stomach. When he reaches between her legs again he finds that she is still wet. He touches her there for some time, watches her face as her pleasure builds up again.
She lets out a quiet mewl and he can't wait any longer.
He wraps his hand around himself. He will do it right this time. He has learned, he has experienced, he can do this. He will no longer be made a fool of. He rubs the tip against her-ready to push in.
"Wait!"
He freezes.
"You're...you're not..." she hesitates.
He's not what? Did she change her mind? Did she no longer want this, now that he is taking action? Has he not become exactly what she hoped to mold him into? He had always done exactly as she had guided, everything she had wanted. But-he thinks back-she had always given him a choice. She never made him do anything he did not want to do.
"You're not wearing-"
"Tell me," he says.
She stares up at him, shock clear on her face. She opens her mouth to speak but he interrupts again.
"Tell me..." He closes his eyes, gathers his resolve, and continues, "Tell me to, and I will stop."
He waits.
When he doesn't hear her say anything for some time, he opens his eyes to look at her. She appears to be searching his face, a wrinkle forming between her brows as she struggles to make a decision.
The silence stretches out.
Finally, she does something. One hand goes to the back of his neck while the other goes to his hip, pulling him down toward her.
Her lips brush against his.
She doesn't tell him to stop.
So he doesn't.