By number three I was a wreck and by number four I had started to lose my manners.
He'd moved us to the floor of the den. Rug, fire off, low lamp. I was on my back with my knees hooked over his shoulders and he was between them with two fingers in me and his thumb on my c**t, no hurry, and I had my hands fisted in the rug and I was begging. Not politely. Properly.
"Please. Please, Cole, please let me—"
"Not yet."
"It's been—"
"Forty minutes."
"Forty?"
"You're doing well." He kissed my knee. Smug. So smug. "Better than I expected."
He got four fingers in my cunt at one point, slowly, one at a time, and I felt it — the stretch of it, the full of it — and he moved them in and out so slowly that I could feel every knuckle.
And his thumb kept circling my c**t and his eyes stayed on my
