CHAPTER 112: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND TWELVE

Carcel looked down at her. His eyes were dark, burning with a mix of amusement and a hunger that mirrored her own. He didn’t move forward. He didn’t give her what she had begged for. Instead, he leaned back slightly, just an inch, creating a maddening gap between their bodies.

"Are you asking me to enter you," he asked, his voice a low, teasing rumble that vibrated against her chest, "when I haven’t even touched you enough yet?"

Ines stared at him. She was panting, her chest heaving against the cool air of the study. The question confused her. Touched her enough? He had been touching her for what felt like hours. Every inch of her skin felt alive, electric, and aching for him.

Her mind, usually so sharp, stuttered. A flicker of worry sparked in her chest.

Maybe, she thought, panic rising, maybe he is tired of how eager I seem?

She bit her swollen lip. Is it too much? Am I being too forward? A lady isn’t supposed to beg. A lady is supposed to wait.

But then she looked at his face. She saw the way his jaw was clenched. She saw the way a vein throbbed in his neck. He wasn’t tired. He wasn’t disgusted. He was holding onto his control by a very thin, very frayed thread.

No, she corrected herself, the worry fading. It’s alright. Carcel isn’t the kind of man who gets tired just because of something like this. He isn’t rejecting me. He is... he is playing.

Ines swallowed hard. She looked him straight in the eye. She wouldn’t back down.

"Yes," she whispered. Then she said it louder, with more conviction. "Yes, please... Carcel, put it in."

Carcel smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. It was a wicked, knowing smile that made her toes curl.

"Not yet," he said softly.

He moved his hand. He took it away from her breast, leaving her skin cold and tingling. He moved it down, between them.

"I need to loosen you up more first," he murmured.

He didn’t use his body. He used his hand. He touched the wet, slick entrance of her body. He circled it, teasing the sensitive skin, making her hips buck involuntarily against the hard wood of the desk.

Then, he inserted his finger.

Ines gasped, her head falling back. It was a sharp, focused sensation.

"I need to loosen you up well here," Carcel explained, his voice sounding strained, as if he were in pain, "so that you can receive me without pain. You are tight, Ines. So tight."

He began to move his finger. In and out. Slow and deep. He twisted his wrist slightly, hitting a spot inside her that made her vision blur.

Ines gripped the edge of the desk so hard her fingernails scratched the varnish.

But, she thought, her mind a haze of frustration and pleasure, the more Carcel touches me... the more I feel like I will go mad.

It wasn’t enough. It was good. It was wonderful. But it was like being hungry and being offered a single crumb.

His fingers feel good, she admitted to herself. But quickly... I need him quickly. I need the weight of him. I need him to fill me completely.

She tried to move her hips, tried to push back against his hand, trying to signal her impatience.

Carcel felt her urgency. He felt the way her body clamped down around his finger, pulling him in. He stopped moving.

His voice cut through her spiraling thoughts.

"Do you want to try it yourself?"

"Yes..." she answered automatically, because she wanted to say yes to anything he asked.

Then, the words registered.

Ines blinked. The question didn’t make sense. Her brain was too foggy to process it.

"Huh?"

She lifted her head, looking at him with wide, confused eyes. "Try... what?"

Carcel didn’t answer with words. He withdrew his hand from her body. He reached out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was firm.

"Put your hand here," he commanded softly.

He guided her hand down. He moved it between their bodies, down to the place where he had just been. He pressed her palm against her own center.

Ines flinched. The sensation was shocking. She felt the heat radiating from her own body. She felt the wetness soaking her skin. It felt... strange. It felt forbidden.

She looked at him, baffled.

"Why?" she whispered.

Why was he making her do this? Why wasn’t he touching her?

Carcel looked at her. His eyes were dark pools of intent. He wasn’t mocking her. He was showing her something.

"Don’t you want to know?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

He pressed her hand firmer against herself, forcing her fingers to slip into the slick warmth.

"Don’t you want to know," he whispered, "how hot it is inside a woman?"

Ines stared at him.

How hot it is...

She moved her fingers, just a little.

She felt it. It was scorching. It was a wet, clinging heat that she had never really noticed before because she had always been too focused on his touch. But now, feeling it with her own hand...

It was a revelation.

This, she thought, her writer’s mind suddenly waking up, sharp and clear amidst the haze of passion. This is what he feels.

When he touches me... this is what he feels. This heat. This softness.

"It’s..." she started, her voice trembling. "It’s very hot."

"Yes," Carcel growled. "It is burning. It burns me every time I touch you."

He kept his hand over hers, guiding her movements.

"Feel it, Ines," he urged. "Feel how your body waits for me. Feel how ready you are."

Ines moved her fingers tentatively. She explored herself, guided by his hand. She felt the pulse of her own blood. She felt the slickness that proved her desire.

It was intimate in a way she hadn’t expected. It wasn’t just about pleasure. It was about understanding. He was showing her the physical proof of her own want.

"You are so wet," Carcel murmured, his lips brushing her ear. "For me."

Ines shuddered. The shame she might have felt was burned away by his words.

It’s true, she thought. This is all for him.

"Do you feel that?" he asked, pressing her middle finger slightly deeper.

Ines gasped. "Yes."

But it feels strange. She thought to herself.