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Keegan is the kind of man who makes rules and then waits for you to break them just so he can punish you for it later.
Like the time he tells you don’t forget your jacket, and when you do, shivering on the walk back from town, he doesn’t offer his. He drapes it over his own shoulders instead, smirking when you glare. “Actions, consequences,” he says mildly.
He doesn’t raise his voice when you sass him in the car. Doesn’t fight when you slam a drawer in irritation. He just waits until you slip, waits until the next time he has you alone with no witnesses, no excuses, no chance to squirm out of it.
Keegan isn’t loud about anything. He doesn’t posture, doesn’t gloat, doesn’t even breathe hard when you start to break. He just… watches you. Decides. And then does whatever he wants with your body until the lesson sinks bone deep.
Tonight the lesson is simple: you don’t come unless he says so.
Your back sticks to the sheets; your thighs are a mess, slick and shaking. You can’t tell how long it’s been. Time’s meaningless when he’s kneeling between your spread knees, sleeves shoved up, forearms cabled as his fingers slide slow, slow, in and out, in and out, like you’ve got all night and he’s in no rush to feed you.
“You begged for this,” he murmurs, voice a rasp that scrapes down your spine. “Remember that when you start sniffling.”
“I’m not- ” your protest breaks on a gasp when he crooks those thick fingers just so and the world whites out for a blink. Your hips jerk; you chase. You always chase.
“Hands,” he says mildly.
You slap your palms to the mattress by your hips like you’ve been trained. He watches the tendons jump in your wrists, amused, and curls his fingers again, ruthless in his precision. His thumb drags lazy circles over your clit. The pressure is perfect. It’s obscene. You’re right there-
-and he slides out of you entirely.
The emptiness hits like whiplash. You make the sound of someone tripping on the last stair.
Keegan hums like he’s evaluating weather. “Saw it coming in your face,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Thought I’d cancel it.”
“Keegan- ”
He cups your mound, just the warmth of his palm, his thumb resting heavy on your clit without moving. “You whine pretty. Keep going.”
You glare. You burn. You try to grind up into his hand. He lifts it an inch so you get nothing but air, and the scold is a soft, lethal murmur. “What did I say about chasing?”
Your nails bite the sheets. “Don’t.”
“Smart girl.” He settles his hand again, gives you one generous press of his thumb- just enough to knock your breath- and then he’s lowering his mouth.
The first drag of his tongue is slow enough to be cruel. He doesn’t devour; he tastes. Flattens his tongue and pulls a shudder out of you from clit to throat. Your thighs clamp his skull on instinct. He pries them wider, palms bruising your knees open.
“Stay,” he says into your heat, and you do, because your body obeys him faster than your brain does.
He licks you until speech falls out of you, until you’re panting and helpless, hips twitching despite yourself, all the sharp edges of your temper filed down to a single bright want. He’s unhurried. Precise. Every time the tension crests in your belly, he changes something: pressure, angle, rhythm, the set of his jaw. The cliff edge arrives. He changes again.
You’re crying when he pulls back the second time. You didn’t notice when the first tears slipped but he does. He catches one with a knuckle and smears it across your cheek, thoughtful.
“Getting there,” he says, as if grading a drill. “Turn over.”
You flop to your stomach, cheek to the pillow, ass up, a mess and a half. He tugs a cushion under your hips to angle you how he likes you, your back already bowing for him like a learned reflex. He slides two fingers back in without warning and you choke, whole body yanked forward on his hand.
“Count your edges,” he says, tone flat. “Out loud.”
“Wh-what?”
“Every time I take it away.” His fingers curl; your breath breaks. “You’ll keep score.”
It’s humiliation used like a tool. It works. He sets a brutal rhythm, drives his fingers up into that spot until you’re clawing the fabric, strangled sounds wasted in the pillow. His palm grinds your clit. The coil draws tight, tighter, one step from snapping-
“One, Keegan,” you sob when he rips his hand away and you convulse around nothing. Your thighs tremble with the aftershocks of nothing at all.
“Good girl,” he says, and it shouldn’t make you wetter, but it does.
He does it again. And again. And again. He edges you on his fingers until your throat’s raw, until your hips stutter like a bad signal, until your own voice terrifies you with how desperate it sounds.
“Two,” you gasp, sick with it.
“Three- please- “
“F-four- ” Your forehead thumps the pillow. “Keegan, please.”
He stretches you open with three fingers like he’s testing your limits, like you passed two edges ago and he has no intention of letting you graduate. “Begging’s better when you’re right there,” he says amiably. “Don’t waste it.”
You muffle a sob against your arm. He ignores it. He leans down and bites your ass, sharp enough to make you jolt, and then he slides his hand out and away and you wail, broken, “Five.”
He sits back on his heels. You hear the bedside drawer. A small motor whirs to life.
“Keegan- no-”
“Relax.” The low hum grows nearer. “You’ll make a mess either way. Might as well paint the sheets for me.”
The toy kisses your clit and your spine bows so violently you swear the world tilts. He plants the head there and keeps it there- no circles, no kindness, just a steady, hungry pressure that makes your vision halo. Your cunt clenches around air; your body tries to climb away; his free hand palms your hip and drags you back onto it.
“Don’t run,” he says, and the warning is pure heat.
You’re gone. You’re babbling. The orgasm surges like a freight train and you feel it- it’s happening- yes-god-yes-
The vibrator clicks off.
You scream into the pillow, and the sound is ugly and beautiful and he loves it.
“Six,” you sob.
“Atta girl.” He turns it on low and taps you with it like a metronome, once, twice- off again. “Tell me what you’ve learned.”
“That you’re- ” your voice breaks, hiccups, “-a sadist.”
“Mm.” He rewards the cheek with one slow glide of the toy from clit to slick entrance and you quake. “Try again.”
“That I- I don’t… get to-“
“To what?”
“Come.” You hate how small you sound. You love that he lets you sound like this.
“Unless?”
“Unless you say so.”
He sighs like you finally solved his equation. “There we are.”
He drops the toy. You turn your head, dazed, and watch him push his sweatpants down with single-minded efficiency, cock heavy and flushed and not for you yet. He catches your look and his eyes spark.
“What?” he asks, all disinterest, as if he didn’t see you swallow. “Think you’ve earned something?”
You almost spit something mean. You don’t. You press your cheek to the pillow and whisper, “Please.”
He climbs over you like a weather system rolling in- solid and inevitable. One hand cages the crown of your head; the other drags your waist back to meet him. The first nudge of his cock at your entrance tears a noise from your chest you don’t even recognize as yours.
“Hold,” he says, and slides in slow. You feel every inch. You feel owned. He bottoms out and pauses, chest rising and falling slow, like the patience costs him and he enjoys paying anyway.
Then he starts to fuck you like a cadence call- measured, relentless, hips eating distance, your body his drum. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything.
“Keegan- ” It’s a plea and a curse.
“Shh.” He palms the back of your neck and presses you down into the pillow. “Save your words.”
He controls the angle with fingers bruising into your hip, finding the stroke that turns your legs to useless heat, that pries helpless sounds out of you on every thrust. His pace is obscene, patient, mercenary. He hammers you right up to the precipice, feels your body start to go liquid around him-
He pulls out. You buck back on nothing, frantic.
“Seven,” he reminds lightly.
You make a wrecked sound, forehead sliding on damp cotton. “Keegan, I cant-”
“You can.” He fists himself once, smearing you along his shaft, then pushes back in on a groan like it’s the first time all over again. “You will.”
He fucks you through eight. Through nine. Through ten until your voice is gone and your body’s a live wire, fried and thrumming. He doesn’t falter. He listens to your breath, your pulse, the tiny unconscious sounds you make when the edge is a second away. He collects them. He refuses you with a consistency that borders on art.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, bending over you until you feel the rasp of his lips at your shoulder. “Done. Useful only for taking me. That what you wanted?”
“Yes,” you gasp, wrecked, honest.
“Then take this.” He sets himself and drives, refinds that exact angle, the one that makes the base of your skull light up. His fingers splay on your lower back, pinning you to the mattress, pushing down to meet him deep, deeper, and your body is nothing but a fuse begging for flame.
He gives you one last edge- lets it roar up- the exact second before the explosion he growls, low and final, “Now.”
Your orgasm detonates like a charge, rips out of you mean and endless, your entire body locking around him, clenching, milking; you hear yourself keen, the noise unspooling forever. He takes it. He fucks through it. He uses it, driving hard enough to keep you on the wire, groaning when your aftershocks drag him over the brink. He spills deep, curses in a voice you’ve never heard from him, like you knocked the wind out of a ghost.
For a while, there’s only breath and the wet, obscene sound of your bodies saying things you can’t.
He stays inside until your shaking eases. When he finally pulls out, he palms your hip to keep you steady and the bed to keep himself honest. He leaves, returns with a warm cloth- silent, efficient, careful in that particular way of his that says you’re mine. He wipes you slow, watches you blink back to the room.
“Roll over,” he says at last.
You do, boneless, and he tugs you down the bed and into the drag of his body like there’s a magnet under your skin. He settles you on his chest; your ear finds his heartbeat; his palm spans your lower back, holding you there like a kept thing.
“How many?” he asks after a slow minute, thumb rubbing idle circles where your spine dips.
You’re fogged enough that it takes a moment to gather you’re unspooled thoughts together enough to form a coherent sound. “Ten.”
“Hm.” He sounds pleased. “Next time, twelve.”
You groan into his sternum. “You’re a menace.”
His laugh is quiet, pleased. “And you’re on my time.” A beat. “Say it.”
You want to fight. You don’t. You let the truth stretch out lazily between you like a satisfied cat. “I’m on your time.”
“Good,” he says, the word a brand and a benediction, and the hand at your back presses you closer like he’s locking it in. “Sleep. Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to wait with your legs closed.”
You should hate that. Your body hums at the promise.