Eliot controls himself, wills himself to be still, as Sophie lowers her body onto his, surrounding him with perfection, with brilliant heat. He feels the pull of delicate silk scarves binding his hands behind his back, and refrains from tearing them to run his hands up and down her body.
Sophie grabs his hair then, pulls, hard, and he moans, strains to get his mouth closer to her.
She doesn’t let him. She twists the hair behind his ear, a blade-sharp tug, and smirks at him, daring him to beg for more.
He doesn’t; he knows the game. She wants to run the show, she wants him supple and passive and full of quiet obedience, not lust, not appetite.
He wants to whimper, wants to lick his lips, but he doesn’t. He does as he’s told, and waits for his reward.