Free Web NovelChapter 53: Chapter 53 - On His Terms
Iyisha slipped back into their room, the wine still hot in her blood, Mary’s words echoing sharp in her head.
You’re the same. Aren’t you selling your body for safety? Malcolm, right?
Malcolm was already there, seated at the table with his rifle half-assembled. He didn’t look up when she entered, only murmured, "Late," before returning to his work.
She stripped off her coat, the silence pressing heavy. She couldn’t stand it, not after hearing Mary’s blunt truth, not after being told she was no different from Ester.
The thought burned in her, fierce and unrelenting: she wasn’t trading herself for comfort, not for safety, not for wine or a sofa or anything else. She was here because she wanted to be with him.
If only he wanted her like she did. And when she dared glance at him, she caught it, the flicker of heat in his eyes that betrayed the truth he wouldn’t say. Her courage spiked and she tugged at her jeans, sliding them off until only her boxer-cut panties remained.
She gripped the blanket beside her as if for balance, then froze, breath shaking, unsure if she could take the next step.
Her throat tightened. She needed him to prove it. She stepped closer, standing at his shoulder. "Teach me," she whispered. "Show me how to clean it."
He nodded toward the empty chair at his side. "Sit there."
Iyisha’s pulse jumped.
Instead of obeying, she lowered herself onto his lap. The chair groaned beneath their weight. His body went rigid, breath held, every muscle tight as stone.
For a moment she thought he would shove her away.
He didn’t.
His hand only shifted, steadying the rifle, his jaw clenched as he guided her fingers to the cloth. His voice stayed clipped, low at her ear.
"Hold it here. Wipe along the grain."
Iyisha shuddered, heat flooding her as his chest pressed firm against her back, his restraint coiled tight.
"Take the cloth," he said. He reached into the kit and pressed a square of linen into her palm. "Always dry and clean. If it’s damp or dirty, you scratch the steel."
His hand guided hers toward the small tin on the table. "Oil next. Only a little. Too much, and it gums the chamber." He dipped the edge of the cloth and rubbed his thumb over it, showing her the sheen. "That’s enough."
Malcolm pressed the cloth back into her hand, guiding it along the barrel.
She became acutely aware of the change beneath her, the slow hardening of his cock as she mirrored his motions. Each careful stroke of the cloth seemed to mark the shift, undeniable and growing with every movement.
See, she thought, wild and certain, he desires her.
She wanted to be bold.
"Will any cloth do?"
Before he could answer, she caught his hand and drew it with the barrel against her chest, guiding it slowly across her breast as if cleaning the barrel on her shirt.
Each pass pressed harder, teasing her nipples until they stiffened beneath the cloth, every brush making her shiver and fight for control.
Her breath turned ragged, panting in short bursts as she sank down harder against his lap, a rush of pleasure sparking low in her belly at the contact.
Malcolm’s hand suddenly gripped her hip, halting her movement. She moaned, the sound slipping free before she could stop it.
His jaw flexed, eyes sharp as he brought his mouth close to her ear.
"Stop." The word cracked low, dangerous.
Iyisha trembled, heat flooding her face.
"You’re hard..." she whispered, as if it were victory.
Malcolm’s grip tightened, stilling her completely. His breath dragged hot and rough at her ear, but his voice cut like steel.
"If I wanted you, you wouldn’t have to guess. I’d make it clear. And it would be on my terms, not yours."
The weight of his words cut sharper than his grip.
Iyisha froze, her cheeks burning, shame prickling her skin. She tried to pull back, but his hand held her fast, felt like iron on her hip.
Malcolm’s voice stayed steady, clipped, as if nothing had shifted. "Even pressure. Keep it slow."
Iyisha’s brain lagged as confusion knotted inside her.
She had thought he meant to stop, to put an end to what was turning into something else, and yet here he was continuing with the lesson as if nothing had shifted.
He guided her hand along the barrel again, his own larger hand covering hers. The rifle gleamed under the lamplight, and for a moment Iyisha’s thoughts tangled. freēwēbηovel.c૦m
She shifted on his lap, the hardness under her pressing firm, impossible to ignore.
"Can you feel how hard it is..." His words cut low against her ear.
A moan slipped out of her before she could stop it. "Y-yes..." She sank down, searching for more of the pressure, the friction she craved.
Malcolm’s mouth brushed close, but instead of giving her what she wanted, he set the barrell in her palm. He pressed a cloth over it, folding her fingers tight.
"I’m talking about this," he said, clipped. His hand covered hers, forcing her grip.
"With the cloth. Don’t grip too tight." His breath burned in her ear as his hips shifted beneath her.
Iyisha’s thoughts reeled, shame and want tangling hot inside her.
He says it would be on his terms... so are we stopping, or are we still continuing?
Her breath shuddered. She should’ve pulled back, but the weight of him, the deliberate way he moved against her hand, rooted her in place.
"Don’t squeeze too tight," he went on, low, measured. "You’ll jam it. Let it slide. Steady in your hand."
She tried, eyes fixed on the way the metal slid against her curled hand.
The low rasp of his voice made her imagine not the barrel at all but the time she had been touching his cock, the same motion, the same rhythm, his hips pumping until he came.
"I... Malcolm," she whispered, squirming against the hard length beneath her, unable to help herself.
"Pressure," Malcolm went on, clipped. "Too soft, it’s useless. Too hard, you’ll ruin it. Hold it right."
His hips pushed up, making sure she understood what he meant.
A moan escaped her lips, her panties damp, nipples straining against her clothes. Malcolm’s right hand slid from the table to her knee, trailing upward as his low voice brushed her ear.
Malcolm’s hand closed over hers, forcing her to keep the motion. "Good. Keep your rhythm. Slow. Steady. You’ll go harder when I tell you."
Her chest heaved, heat blooming everywhere he pressed her. The barrell shook in her grip, her body caught between the chill of the metal and the burn of him.
His lips brushed her ear again, clipped words sinking straight into her. "Focus on the tip. That’s where it matters most. Don’t neglect it."
He angled her hips with a rough push, the blunt head of his hardness bumping against her through the thin barrier, dragging her wetness and making her moan.
"Turn it in your hand," he ordered, rolling her wrist with his own. "Every angle. Every inch. Work it clean."
Her pulse hammered, her moans spilling as the grind beneath her only sharpened.
Her body sagged forward, cheek pressed to the table, loud moans spilling free as she bit her lip. Her nipples strained against her clothes, panties soaked, thighs trembling as her fingers clutched the barrel tight.
Malcolm’s touch slid closer, burning hot against her skin as his lips brushed her cheek.
"Do you want help?" he whispered.
She moaned, desperate, nodding, needing him to touch her where she ached most. Instead, his fingers pressed maddeningly beside it, not quite where she craved, but enough to unravel her.
The near-touch sent her over, pleasure crashing hard and loud as she came, her body shaking against him, the barrel rolling on the table as she dropped it.
She blinked, dazed, still trembling as she came down from the wave of pleasure, hardly able to believe she had unraveled so completely, just like that.
"Pick it up," he said, voice low but hard.
"Malcolm—"
"Pick it up," he repeated, clipped, leaving no space for argument. His grip closed around her wrist, guiding her back to the barrel. The cold weight of steel sat heavy in her palm again.
Her heart pounded, heat still flooding her body, but she let him move her fingers, let him force her hand to work the cloth down the length of metal.
"It’s not my fault you came," he murmured, his breath sharp against her ear. "You finish what you start."
The words cut sharp, dragging her out of the haze of release. Her chest ached. Mary’s voice slid back in, cruel and certain.
Malcolm, right?
Her stomach twisted. Maybe she was. Maybe that was all this was to him too.
Heat rushed up her face, not the kind that came from his touch but from humiliation, from the way she had moaned like a fool on his lap only to be shoved back into place.
She bit her lip hard, forcing back the sting in her throat, her eyes fixed on the strip of metal in her hand.
She was angry. She was hurt.
She wanted more, yet she hated herself for it.
