She hesitated, the words clawing at her throat. "I… I don't love you."
He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he watched her, his eyes searching hers for something she couldn't quite name.
Then, without a word, he began again, his fingers sliding back inside her.
The pleasure returned, even more intense than before. She moaned, her body arching toward him, but he held her steady, his movements controlled, deliberate. And once more, just as she felt herself about to climax, he stopped.
"Say it," he demanded.
"I don't love you," she gasped, her voice breaking.
Again, he began, and again, he stopped. It was a cycle of torment, of agony.
Each time, the pleasure built, only to be ripped away at the last second. She tried to touch herself, to take matters into her own hands, but he was faster.
Before she could react, he had produced a pair of handcuffs from somewhere—where did he get those?— and secured her wrists above her head.
