18 Touch Starved

Zayden stared at Irish, who lay bound on the leather bed, her wrists still gently restrained by cotton ties, not painful, just limiting. Restraining. Leaving her utterly at the mercy of the man now standing beside her with a predator's gaze.

Yet instead of touching her right away, Zayden simply sat on the edge of the bed, leaning back casually as his eyes raked over her from head to toe.

"Giving up without a fight?" he murmured darkly. "I thought you'd put up more of a struggle."

Irish bit her lower lip, stifling a shy smile. "What would you do if I did?"

Zayden smirked, his expression both threatening and teasing. He lifted a finger, tracing the exposed curve of her calf where her skirt had ridden up. The touch was featherlight—just the graze of a fingernail—but enough to make Irish tense.

"I'd punish you," he whispered near her ear, his voice like a soft kiss against her nerves. "With pleasure drawn out… slow… and maddening."

Irish turned her head, meeting his gaze with smoldering defiance. "That doesn't sound like punishment," she breathed back.

Zayden chuckled low in his throat, then stood. He walked to a small cabinet in the corner, opened a drawer, and pulled out a slender white feather, testing its weight in his palm.

"Do you know what tempts me the most?" he asked, returning to the bed. "Not your body." He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "But the way you look at me like you trust me completely… when you don't even know my darkest side yet."

He dragged the feather along Irish's neck, teasing her sensitive skin, making her squirm unconsciously.

"I love seeing you helpless, yet still challenging me with that look in your eyes. Eyes that secretly… want more."

Irish exhaled shakily. "Then why are you still holding back, Uncle?"

Zayden paused, his gaze burning into her. "Because this game isn't about rushing. It's about control. About making you crave more… then denying you."

He dipped his head, brushing his lips against her temple with a heated breath.

"I want you to beg. To plead. I want you to wake up every night remembering how it feels to be touched… but never satisfied."

Irish closed her eyes, her breathing uneven. Her body burned, her pulse wild.

Zayden kissed her jaw, slow, then trailed down her neck, stopping just above the swell of her breasts.

"And when I finally do touch you," he rasped, "I want you to cry. Not from pain, but from holding back a need you didn't even know you had."

He lifted his head, tilting Irish's chin with his thumb. "Are you ready for a game like that?"

Irish opened her eyes, full of fire and challenge. "What if I say yes?"

Zayden grinned.

"Then tonight… we begin your first lesson. Not as my lover. Not as the future mother of my child."

He undid his shirt slowly, one button, two, letting the hard planes of his chest come into view inch by inch.

"You… will be my student tonight. Learning to submit. Learning to endure. Learning to obey."

Zayden reached for a delicate chain on the nightstand, dangling a small pendant engraved with the letter Z.

He draped it over Irish's collarbone, his fingers cool against her flushed skin.

"This necklace," he whispered, "you'll wear every time we play. To remind you that your body… belongs to me."

He leaned in, his lips a breath away from Irish's already-parted ones.

But just as she tried to close the distance, Zayden pulled back, making her grit her teeth in frustration.

"I won't kiss you tonight," he said hoarsely, "because one kiss from me… would ruin every ounce of control I've built."

He stroked her cheek, delivering his final words in a voice that sent shivers down her spine:

"But if you truly want me to kiss you and let you go tonight…"

"You have to say one word."

"What?" Irish barely whispered.

Zayden leaned down… and answered with a devilish smile,

"Beg."

Then he turned off the lights.

Zayden stood between her thighs, his towering frame casting a dark shadow over Irish's flushed body. The dim light from the corner of the room traced the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his forearms, the subtle dip of his abdomen just below his unfastened belt. He hadn't even truly touched her yet—and yet Irish felt like she might shatter at any second. 

Her pulse roared in her ears as Zayden finally closed the distance between them. 

But instead of the deep, claiming kiss she craved, he gave her only the faintest flick of his tongue—a teasing, barely-there lick along her parted lips. 

Warm. Wet. And *cruelly* brief. 

Then he pulled away, just far enough for Irish to feel the brutal absence of his touch. 

She gasped, her body arching unconsciously toward him, but Zayden held her in place with nothing more than the dark promise in his gaze. 

"That's all you get tonight," he murmured, his thumb brushing her now-glistening lower lip. 

Irish's breathing was ragged, frustration simmering into something molten. Her thighs trembled. Her entire body burned from the inside out. 

Zayden took a step back. Slow. Calm. Like a man who already knew he'd won. 

But Irish couldn't take it anymore. 

"Wait—" The word slipped out, shaky and desperate. 

Zayden paused. Turned. 

Irish stared up at him, her face flushed, her eyes begging for what she couldn't bring herself to say again. 

"Please..." she finally whispered, the word breaking from her lips like a surrender and a challenge all at once. 

Zayden watched her. Silent. Then stepped closer again, until their faces were just a breath apart. 

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, soft, fleeting, almost chaste, as if she were an innocent girl and not a woman burning beneath him. 

Then, that smirk. 

"Good girl." 

And with that, he stepped back. Picked up his shirt. Slipped it back on, button by torturously slow button. 

Irish lay there, still bound, lips trembling between humiliation and fury.