He didn't answer. He simply pulled away, his eyes dark with a focused, terrifyingly calm intent. He led me to the edge of the bed and sat me down, the silk of my dress bunched around my waist.
Then, he dropped to his knees.
The shift in power was staggering. He took my right leg, lifting it until my heel rested firmly on his shoulder, opening me completely to his gaze. I felt the cool air hit my skin for only a second before the heat of him replaced it.
He began with his tongue long, slow, wet strokes that traveled from my inner thigh to the very center of me. He flicked and nipped, his movements precise and relentless. At the same time, he slid two fingers inside me, finding a rhythm that felt like it was rewiring my nervous system.
The contrast was undoing me: the rough edge of his teeth, the silkiness of his tongue, and the deep, steady stretch of his fingers. Every time I thought I was about to snap, he would slow down, circling the peak of my sensation without quite crossing it, over and over until I was arching off the bed.
"Please," I half moaned, my hands clutching at the bedsheets, my body trembling with a need that felt like a fever. "Ntando, please... just take me. I can't I need you inside me."
He paused, his fingers still buried deep, his chin resting against my thigh as he looked up at me. His face was a mask of pure, dominant discipline.
"I told you," he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating growl that I felt in my bones. "I want you to feel every bit of this. I want you to remember exactly how much I can make you crave me."
Instead of standing up, he leaned back in. He wouldn't give me the ease of sex; he would only give me the exquisite torture of his mouth until I forgot everything but the sound of his name. My fingers found the buckle of his belt, trembling with a frantic, desperate energy.
"Ntando, please," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I want you. Now."
He caught my wrists in one hand, pinning them gently but immovably against the headboard. The dominance in the gesture was quiet, absolute.
"Not tonight, Paida," he murmured against the sensitive hollow of my throat, sending a fresh wave of heat through me.
"Why?" I gasped, arching my back as his free hand began a slow, torturous descent.
"Because you've had enough wine to dull the edges," he said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly vibration. "And when I finally take you, I want you sharp. I want you to feel every single second. I want you sober enough to remember the exact moment you forget your own name."
He didn't give me a chance to argue. His mouth found the sensitive skin behind my ear while his hand finally reached its destination. He was expert, patient, and devastatingly thorough. Every touch was a command; every stroke was designed to push me closer to a ledge I wasn't ready for.
He used his tongue and his fingers with a rhythmic, punishing precision that ignored my pleas for him to just finish it. He watched my face, his gaze never leaving mine even as I began to unravel. He wanted to see the exact moment my control snapped.
When the climax finally hit, it was violent and all-consuming, leaving me gasping and clinging to his shoulders as the world tilted. As the tremors finally began to fade, Ntando leaned in, brushing a damp curl from my forehead. He looked completely composed, despite the hunger still burning in his eyes.
Then, he stood up, adjusted his shirt, and walked out of the room without looking back.