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I see the plea in her eyes, the silent begging. She wants me to touch her, to drive her over the edge, but I won't give in.
Not yet.
I want to draw out this exquisite torture for as long as I can. It's a game, a delicious dance of desire and restraint.
I want her desperate, frantic, utterly mine.
A low, hungry sound rumbles in my throat as I nuzzle the junction between her neck and shoulder, scraping my teeth over her pulse.
She whimpers, a soft, broken sound that goes straight to my cock. I'm hard as steel, throbbing with the need to be inside her, to feel the slick heat of her around me.
But first, I have a different kind of punishment in mind.
With a slow, deliberate movement, I slide the blade back down her body, placing it at her center. Her hips buck involuntarily, a silent plea for more. I chuckle, the sound rough and filled with dark promise.
"So eager, little fawn. But we're not quite there yet."
Her eyes fly open at the words, a spark of worry entering their green depths.
Does she think I'll use the blade on her? My fawn is learning that there are many ways to be marked. Many ways to be claimed.
The hilt of my knife is solid, smooth, and just the right size to prepare her. I lift her legs, placing her ankles on my shoulders, baring her to me in a way that has her blushing and squirming.
Perfect.
"What are you—?" she starts to ask, but her words turn into a moan as I press the carved wooden hilt to her core.
"Shhh," I murmur, nuzzling her neck. "This will feel better if you relax." With a slow, deliberate movement, I rub the hilt against her, back and forth, teasing, tantalizing.
Her hips arch off the bed, her body instinctively seeking more. A strangled cry escapes her throat, half-protest and half-plea. "Lucian..."
"Yes, fawn?" I whisper, not stopping, but increasing the pressure, the pace.
"More," she whispers, her voice hoarse with need. "Please, I need more."
I lean down, my mouth claiming hers in a fierce kiss as I continue to torture her with the hilt of my knife.
She tastes of sweetness and need, and I swallow her cries, her pleas. My fawn is desperate now, wild and wanton, and it's all for me. The thought sends a surge of possessiveness through me.
I position the hilt of my knife at her entrance and slowly, deliberately, push it inside her, inch by exquisite inch.
She clenches around it, hot and wet, trying to pull it deeper. I want to thrust, to claim her, but I force myself to be patient, to keep the pace slow and relentless.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders, nails scraping my skin as she cries out, her back arching off the bed. "Lucian, please! More—"
"As you wish, pet," I murmur, withdrawing almost completely before thrusting slowly back inside. I set a relentless pace, my arm muscles flexing as I use the hilt of my knife to fuck her. She's tight around it, her inner walls quivering, and she meets each thrust with a mewl or a cry.
The heady scent of her arousal fills the room, mixing with the musk of our bodies. Her breath comes in short gasps, her skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat.
I want to mark that perfect skin, to leave my teeth marks on her, to brand her as mine, but I hold back. I won't give in to that urge... not yet.
Instead, I focus on the way she looks spread out before me. I commit to memory the way her breasts rise and fall with each ragged breath, the way her head tosses from side to side, her eyes closed in concentration. I want to drink in the sight of her, to etch it into my memory forever.
With a final, desperate cry, she shatters, her body convulsing around the hilt of my knife. Her release washes over me, her inner muscles clenching and relaxing as she rides out her orgasm.
I slow my movements, drawing out her pleasure, reveling in the way she comes apart at my hands. My little fawn, reduced to a quivering mess by my touch.
The knife. My faithful companion for so many years now. Its cold, hard surface is a contrast to her soft, yielding heat, and yet, together, we bring her pleasure.
