Page 109 of Wait for Him

He looks at me through the glass and waits, water sheeting over his shoulders.

"Make yourself come."

A slow, sexy smile spreads across his face as he works soap over his rapidly hardening cock and starts to stroke, taking his time because he knows perfectly well I'm watching and the man has developed a deep appreciation for performing under supervision.

That was twenty minutes ago.

Since then, I've walked him right to the edge three times and pulled him back from every one, and he's about reached the limit of his patience. His thighs are taut, his breathing has gone rough, precum leaks from his tip onto his stomach, and that sexy vein in his neck is standing out. His whole body is one clenched plea, but he hasn't broken a single rule to get there.

Fuck, I love that about him.

"Are you ready to come?"

"Fuck yes. Please."

I raise an eyebrow.

That's all it takes.

Disappointment flashes across his face as he catches himself and immediately reins it back in, pulling in a breath before trying again.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm ready to come."

Much better.

I let him wait another second because I'm not entirely benevolent.

"Good boy. Come for me."

"Fuckkkk. Fuck. Fuck."

It takes two hard, long strokes of his fist before his release hits the glass, his whole body jerking with the force of everything I made him hold. When he's finally spent, he braces both hands against the tile and leans forward, head hanging between his shoulders while the water runs down the marked-up line of his back and he tries to remember how breathing works.

It takes every ounce of willpower I own not to step in there and start the whole damn thing over again. But we have a flight, and I've already delayed us once this morning for significantly less noble reasons. At some point, Sullivan & Associates does require its board members to put on clothes and participate in capitalism.

Tragic, really.

I open the shower door and take his face in my hands, licking the water from his lips before kissing him.

"Finish up, and then we'll get going."

He leans down and rests his forehead against mine, still dripping, still catching his breath. "I can't fucking feel my legs, Rose."

I laugh and give his cheek a light smack. "You'll get used to it."

His eyes narrow. "That's either a promise or a threat."

"Yes."

***

Jackson's been quiet since we left New York.

He was distracted on the flight, checked out somewhere behind his eyes, and now we're en route to the Sullivan building and he's staring out his window, clenching and unclenching his fist against his thigh. I don't think he even knows he's doing it. He’s been laid open and easy under my hands, and somewhere between New York and Los Angeles, he closed like a door.

As we pull up to the building, the driver opens my door and I move to get out, but Jackson catches my hand.

"I'm going to run to my place first, and then I'll head back to the office. Okay?"