Something dark and pleased flickers in his eyes. He reaches out and finally—finally—wraps his hand around my c**k. The grip is firm, dry, controlled. He gives one slow stroke from base to tip, collecting the wetness there, and then stops. Just holds me.
I make a broken sound. My hips try to push up into his fist. He presses them back down with his other hand, easy strength, and holds me there.
“No. You don’t get to move yet.” His thumb circles the head, smearing the precome. “You’ve been aching for forty-five minutes. You’re going to ache a little longer while I decide how I want to ruin you.”
He releases my c**k and moves both hands to my inner thighs, spreading them wider until the stretch burns pleasantly. Then he leans down. I feel the heat of his breath first. Then the slow, delibe
