I laid there for twenty minutes.
Cuffed. Used. Denied.
His come was drying on my skin. My body was twitching, still burning for a release he refused to give me.
And he never looked back.
Just walked out like he didn’t break me.
I should’ve left. I should’ve screamed. I should’ve hated him.
But all I did was wait.
And when he finally returned—calm, collected, with a bottle of water in one hand and a smug smirk—I hated how my body throbbed for him again.
“You’re quiet now,” he said, setting the water down on the side table.
“I’m cuffed,” I snapped.
His smirk deepened. “And still so mouthy.”
He uncuffed me without a word. My arms dropped like dead weight. I was sore. Shaky. And so, so wet.
I moved to get up—then froze when his hand caught my neck and pressed me back down onto the
