You ever play that game?
The one where you act like you’re not into it—just to see how hard they’ll try?
Oh, honey. I’m so good at that game.
Last night, I laid there in my little lace tank and barely-there panties, stretched out like a bored housecat on my bed. The sheets were still warm from the last round, my legs lazy and open, my skin humming. And there he was—standing at the edge of the mattress with that look in his eyes. That soft, hungry look like he wanted to worship and ruin me at the same time.
I gave him the tiniest sigh.
Rolled my eyes.
Pouted, just a little.
“Again?” I said. “You’re insatiable.”
He hesitated, bless him. Like he really thought maybe I needed a break. Like he didn’t see the way my hips were already tilting forward, the way my nipples were pressing through the lace like they had their own ideas.
And that’s when I gave him the look. You know the one.
The “I’m pretending I don’t want it, but if you don’t take me right now I might die” look.
He bought it. Hook, line, and heartbeat.
He crawled up beside me like I was something delicate, like he needed to ask permission with every breath. He kissed my shoulder—soft, sweet, reverent—and hovered over me, waiting. His hands were shaking, just a little.
God, I love that.
So I gave him another little sigh. One that said fine. One that said I guess.
“I mean… if you’re really gonna be like that,” I whispered. “You can keep going. I guess.”
That was all it took.
He groaned—like he’d been holding his breath for hours—and slipped his hand between my thighs. And surprise, surprise… I was soaked. Dripping. Clenching around nothing because I’d been teasing myself just as much as him.
But I kept the act up.
Bit my lip. Turned my face away.
I even moaned like I was trying not to. Like I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
That made him work harder. Desperate. Beautiful.
Here’s the truth, sugar: I love pretending I’m not into it.
I love watching their confidence falter, then flare.
I love making them earn it.
There’s something delicious about being the reluctant prize. About letting them chase, coax, beg. About watching them fall apart trying to please me—while I lie there like I’m doing them a favor just by being touched.
But the best part?
The best part is when I finally break character.
When I arch my back and grab their wrist and drag their hand deeper.
When I grind my hips up and let the filth fall out of my mouth like gospel.
When I whisper, “Harder. You were doing so good… don’t stop now.”
That’s when their brains short-circuit. That’s when they realize they were never in control at all.
I was just letting them play at it.
So yeah, the next time I say, “I guess you can keep going,” don’t believe me.
The next time I pout and pretend I’m over it?
That’s the cue.
That’s when I’m right there on the edge, waiting for you to fuck me through it.
I may pretend I don’t like it.
But baby… I live for it.
Kisses and cummies!
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