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I stretched languidly, feeling the pleasant soreness in my muscles. "You wore me out," I admitted. "What time did you get up?"
Oliver perched on the edge of the bed, his fingers ghosting along my arm. "Around 9:30 a.m. Trouble decided my hand made the perfect alarm clock."
I chuckled. "Why doesn't he ever wake me for breakfast?"
"Because he loves you too much to disturb your beauty sleep," Oliver teased.
"Oh please," I rolled my eyes. "You're the one out there playing fetch. You're such a pushover."
Oliver's laugh was rich and deep. "He's good company. Maybe we should bring him on our honeymoon."
The suggestion caught me off guard. "I'm not sure how he'd handle the flight," I hedged. "Besides, Matthew would be disappointed if he didn't get to dog-sit?"
"You're probably right," Oliver conceded, but there was a flicker of something – disappointment? relief? – in his eyes.
Trouble chose that moment to bound into the room, leaping onto the bed in a flurry of fur, and excitement. Oliver scooped him up, scratching behind the dog's ears as Trouble's tongue lolled happily.
It was a perfect Sunday morning, but a knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. Tonight, would be our last night together for nearly a week. Oliver would move to the guest room, a nod to tradition before our wedding. Even knowing he'd be just down the hall, the thought of sleeping alone left me feeling unsettled.
I reached out, lacing my fingers through Oliver's free hand. He squeezed gently, a silent reassurance. But as I met his gaze, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to his insistence on this separation than mere tradition. What wasn't he telling me?
The digital clock mocked me: 12:32 a.m. I cursed under my breath, rolling over for what felt like the thousandth time. Three nights of this self-imposed exile from Oliver's bed, and my resolve was crumbling.
Earlier, we'd spent an hour locked in a heated embrace, his hands roaming my body with increasing desperation. Each time I'd pushed him away, the frustration in his eyes had grown.
"I won't touch myself," he'd growled. "Not until I'm inside you." I'd made the same silent vow, but now, lying alone in the dark, I was regretting my stubbornness.
After twenty torturous minutes of staring at the ceiling, something inside me snapped. I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Trouble, whose soft snores filled the room. My bare feet padded silently down the hall to the guest room.
The door creaked softly as I entered. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, illuminating Oliver's sleeping form. His arm was thrown above his head, the sheet tangled around his waist, leaving his muscular chest exposed. My eyes traveled lower, drawn to the unmistakable outline beneath the thin fabric.
Heart pounding, I approached the bed. What was I doing? This was madness. But as I gazed at Oliver, all rational thought fled. I gently pushed down the covers, revealing him fully.
With trembling fingers, I climbed onto the bed. My tongue darted out, teasing the sensitive spot at the base of his cock. Oliver shifted, mumbling something unintelligible. Emboldened, I took him fully into my mouth.
Oliver's body jerked as he gasped awake. "Holy fuck, Ryleigh," he panted, voice thick with sleep and arousal. "What are you doing?"
I released him with a soft 'pop'. "I need you," I whispered, my voice raw with desire. "Fuck this stupid pact."
To my surprise, Oliver sat up and gently pushed me away. His eyes, though dark with lust, held a hint of amusement. "You've lasted so long," he murmured. "Tomorrow, we'll be married."
Frustration and embarrassment warred within me. "But that's another miserable night," I protested. "And this one isn't even over."
Oliver's deep chuckle sent shivers down my spine. "I knew you would crack," he said, a note of triumph in his voice.
Anger flared. "Fuck you, Oliver," I spat.
In a blur of movement, I found myself pinned beneath him, his full weight pressing me into the mattress. "Is that what you want, sweet Ryleigh?" he growled, his breath hot against my ear. "You want me to fuck you? To make you come so hard your belly aches?"
I struggled weakly, desire overwhelming my indignation. "Please," I gasped. "I want you."
Oliver shifted, sliding his hand between our bodies. As his fingers found my clit, I heard his sharp intake of breath. "Christ, you're soaked," he murmured, his voice thick with need.
As Oliver's skilled fingers worked their magic, a small voice in the back of my mind whispered a warning. Why had he seemed so prepared for this? Had he planned for me to break first? The thought should have bothered me, but as pleasure built within me, I found I didn't care
“I still think we should wait,” he said, removing his hand.
“No,” I replied immediately. “I need it. I haven’t slept all week.”
