God help me. I want her.I want her to come again and again, on my fingers, my tongue, my cock. I want her in every way, and it feels like my own special circle of hell to come so close, again and again, and have to force myself to stop. To deny myself.
“Max–” Sasha moans my name breathily, her lips still brushing my throat, and I shudder with need. Her hand drops, gliding through the water to cup between my legs, her palm pressing against the weight of my aching cock as she moans. “Let me take care of you now–”
I don’t know how I find the strength to pull away. All I know is that if I let her keep touching me, if I let her get my cock out, I’ll have her legs around my waist and be deep inside of her before I can stop myself. I’m already on the brink of snapping that last thread of control again. It takes everything in me to back away, pulling my hand away from her as I break the contact between us.
“No.” I shake my head, gritting my teeth against the wave of frustrated agony that sweeps through me. “As long as I don’t–this was about you, not me. I can’t allow myself my own pleasure from this.”
Sasha lets out a frustrated breath through her own teeth. “Max, you’re splitting hairs.” She splashes her hands ineffectively against the water, and I have another moment to look at her and think how beautiful she is, the sun glinting off of her wet hair and the droplets of water clinging to her pale skin, before I force myself to climb up the ladder and out of the pool.
“Max!” Sasha turns to walk up the steps, her bathing suit clinging to her even more lewdly than before. “This is ridiculous.”
I turn sharply towards her, my frustration mounting rapidly. “So I’m ridiculous? Is that what you think of me?”
She blows out a sharp breath, pushing a strand of wet hair away that’s clinging to her face. “No, of course not. I–you know how I feel about you. Butthis–this push and pull and telling me that we can’t until you finally break, and then pretending as if leaving yourself out of the equation somehow makes it better….”
Sasha presses her lips tightly together, shaking her head. “It doesn’t make it better, Max. It just tortures us both more. I don’t just want pleasure or orgasms. I wantyou.”
“I know.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “Sasha, I–”
“It’s fine.” She says it quickly, on a rushed breath, telling me clearly enough that it’snotfine. “We can just–go back to pretending it didn’t happen. That’s what we’re good at, right?”
“Sasha–” My chest contracts at the barely veiled hurt in her voice.
“No. It’s fine. Really. I just–I’m getting a little warm. Tired. I’ll see you at dinner?”
She doesn’t bother to wait for my answer, striding past me towards the gate.
10
SASHA
Max doesn’t come to dinner. I end up eating alone at the big table, not entirely sure where else to go other than my room in the impossibly large house, without him there to make a suggestion–and eating alone in my room somehow feels worse.
I pick at my food, sip at my wine, and nurture the steadily growing frustration balled up in the center of my chest.
It’s not that I’m not trying to be respectful of his vows. It’s not. But this dancing around what is and isn’t keeping them–
I know why Max is splitting hairs over it. He wants this as badly as I do, and he’s trying to find ways to give me–and himself–something while still feeling that he’s sticking to the heart of his promises. But all it’s doing is tearing us apart in a myriad of different ways.
Max doesn’t make an appearance, even though I linger for a long time, hoping he might change his mind the way he did this afternoon. I finally abandon all hope of finishing dinner and start towards the stairs. I don’t feel like watching a movie in a room full of memories of mine and Max’s not-date-night from last night, and the day has worn me out in more ways than one.
But as I pass what I’m pretty sure is Max’s study, I hear something that sounds like the snapping of leather, and a low groan, as if through gritted teeth.
What the hell?I frown, walking towards the door. I haven’t been in the room, but I’ve seen Max disappear into it more than once. I hear the sound again, that sharp snap, and this time a hissing intake of breath.
Whatever is going on in there, I have a feeling Max wouldn’t want me to see it. I hover there with my hand over the doorknob, wondering if I should just go upstairs and deal with wondering what it is.
Then I hear it again, and a sound that I know to be Max, grunting through gritted teeth.
Fuck it.
I push open the door.
As it opens, I see Max hunched over a broad mahogany desk–shirtless. That brings me up short with the unexpectedness of it, but what startles me more is the sight of him swinging a leather belt over his shoulder. It strikes him across the back, leaving a reddish welt on his skin crisscrossed with other fresh welts. I’m reminded suddenly of how he was reluctant to let me see him with his shirt off at his house back in New York. I’d thought it was modesty, but now–
“What the fuck?”
The words burst out of me as I step in, fists bunching at my sides as the door shuts behind me, and I stand there indignantly, staring at Max’s welted back.