Chapter 7

ESME  

He starts by peppering kisses along the line of my neck, trapping my body under his weight. He moves upward, with his lips trailing at my chin before he finally claims my mouth. Supporting my face with his palm, he nips at my lips—slow, torturous grazes that pull at my skin but never quite give me the friction I’m begging for. It's a half-kiss, a tease before he dives his tongue in.  

I'm finding it hard to keep up with his pace; he’s not giving me enough air or time to react. Meanwhile, his left hand is roaming my torso, slowly, agonizingly creeping under my bra. My toes curl against the sheets, digging into the mattress, fighting every urge to beg for the friction he's withholding. His tongue swirls in my mouth, sucking me and leaving me breathless.  

I start to strain against the restraints, pulling and yanking at them despite my wrists burning. I want to touch him, to feel the heat in his skin like he's doing in mine.

God, this is agonizing.  

I thought this wouldn't feel like a punishment, but I’m finally starting to see the catch. I want to sink my fingers into his hair or just feel his skin, but I’m stuck arching my back while he takes what he wants. He pulls away and dives straight to my cleavage, burying his face in it.  

Again, a finger unhooks my bra from behind. It falls away. The sudden release makes me gasp. My skin finally feels free, cooling as the air hits me, only for the heat of his body to rush back in. Desperate for more, I part my legs, wrapping them around his hips, shamelessly rubbing against his hardness.  

He stops, head up, eyes locked on mine. "I told you to show me how much you want it—I didn't tell you to be impatient." He grips my thigh and rips them off his hips, pinning my legs back down to the mattress. Protest dies in my throat. I groan in frustration, arching my hips toward him.  

"Please."  

"So much for 'what if Dad finds out,'" he sneers. "You were so worried about being caught five minutes ago; what happened to all that hesitation, Esme?"  

"If you’re trying to torture me to death, it’s working."  

He goes still, chuckles, then slowly pulls away.  

No, no, no, no.  

Bastard!  

He moves away; I don't know where, but he's not very far. Straining against the blindfold isn't helping, but I want to hear what he’s doing. The room has gone quiet except for the clinking of metal against a tray.

 

"Lorenzo?" My voice is small. "What are you doing?"  

He doesn’t answer.  

"Lorenzo?"  

God, he's so frustrating.  

I hear him walk back toward the bed, but he doesn't touch me. I can feel the heat radiating from his body as he leans over me, yet he keeps a lot of space between our skin. The anticipation is killing me.  

"Answer me," I snap, though it sounds more like a plea.  

Suddenly, something cold and sharp touches my collarbone. I flinch, but then it starts to move. It feels like a wheel with tiny, biting spikes rolling down the center of my cleavage. It doesn't pierce the skin, but it sends a thousand electric shocks through my nerves. I instantly arch my back, gasping; it travels all the way down to my navel.  

"Lorenzo, what the hell is that?"  

"Judging by the way you're reacting, I don't think you're complaining."  

From my navel, he drags the wheel down, creeping to my inner thigh. I moan softly, hips buckling as I wait for the spikes to finally hit the one spot I’ve been screaming for. But he diverts at the last second, circling back up toward my navel.  

I hate him so much.  

"Do you want me to beg?" I spit.  

I hear the smirk in his voice as he leans in close.  

"I would love that."  

"Just get on with it, please."  

"If I get on with it, it wouldn't be a punishment anymore, would it?"  

He leans down until his lips are brushing against my ear. "Besides... you’re far too loud when you get what you want. I prefer you like this—frustrated."  

The wheel starts to move again, lazily circling my hip bone. My toes curl up again.  

"Just admit what you’ve been refusing to say for years. You want this. You want me. But you’re too stubborn to put it into words."  

I try to turn my head away, but he grips my jaw, holding me in place, keeping eye contact.  

"I’m not stopping," he adds, still torturing me. "You're gonna stop lying to me... and yourself."  

I whip my head to escape his grip. It's pointless; he has me pinned. He wheels back to my thigh, dangerously close to my clit. A groan forces its way out, a ragged sound I didn't plan. My muscles coil, tightening so hard they ache. I can’t help it anymore; I shamelessly roll my hips, desperate for the bite of the metal.  

Seeing this, he sneers triumphantly.  

"Naughty girl."  

Then he pulls it away, dips one finger inside me. He brings it out slick and glistening.  

I moan, my eyes shut, silently begging for a repeat, even if it's just a graze, a light slap, a kiss—anything. It's throbbing so badly I want to be thrown to orgasm, but he’s dragging this out unnecessarily, delaying my release.  

He does it again: one finger in, then out. This time he trails his nails along the juice spilling down my thigh, collecting it. He watches the way I tremble before bringing his finger to his mouth, then licks it.  

"Sweet, but you’re still too tense. Let’s fix that."