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my throbbing clit in his mouth and sucked. His tongue swirled around that fat nub, teasing it in an endless array of flicks and jabs. He licked at the underside of it, where it was so tender, until I began to writhe.
    And he stopped.
    Again!
    Panting, I clutched at his hair and tried to drag him back. Back to where he belonged. Where I needed him. But he resisted. When I opened my eyes to glare at him, to plead, perhaps, he was staring at me, a solemn expression on his face.
    “I told you not to move.”
    “I have to move. You’re driving me crazy.”
    He shook his head. Sable curls flopped from side to side. “I told you not to move.”
    “Jesus. Will you just fuck me?”
    “Not yet.”
    “When?”
    “When you pay your debt.”
    Well, that shut me up. My mind spun. “W-what debt?”
    He scooted back up to the top of the bed and kissed me on the lips. I tasted myself on his tongue. His fingers, bless them, delved into my cleft again, rubbing small, slow circles around my clit. My pulse throbbed madly. I’d never been so aroused. So swollen. So tender.
    “Yesterday I gave you a command. You disobeyed.”
    Oh. Shit. The G-string.
    “I just—”
    “Ah ah ah.” He tapped my lips. Drew a soft line along the seam, as though this hint of a touch would silence me. It did. “Until I get my due, no orgasms for you.”
    I gaped at him. Seriously? I was mad to come. Literally insane with aching, throbbing lust.
    “You can’t do this to me!” I wailed. I actually wailed.
    He had the temerity to laugh. And then he softened it with a kiss. “Sorry, sweetheart. Rules are rules. If you disobey, I will punish you.”
    “You already spanked me.” Did I really need to remind him?
    His grin was wolfish. “What makes you think that was a punishment?”
    My mouth opened and closed several times in succession. Rather like a landed trout. “What was it then?”
    “Foreplay. Now come on.” He sat up and took me with him. Every aching part of me protested. “Time to get dressed for work.” He shot me a dark look. “And when you’re ready, when you are all dressed, come back over here for your inspection.”
    Why oh why, did that send a sharp sliver of delight through me? I stood and collected my clothes.
    He watched as I dressed and then walked me to the door. “Oh, and sweetheart?”
    I glared at him. “What?”
    “Don’t diddle your cunt in the shower.”
    “I’m horny. And you won’t do it.”
    “Don’t. Do. It. I’ll know if you do. And that will only make it worse.”
    “Make what worse?” My voice was soft, unsure. Although I was sure, pretty damn sure, of the answer.
    He kissed my neck, a long, slow suck, a nibble, a lick. “Your punishment, of course.”
    Of course.
    I swung away, out of his clutches, and stormed across the hall. I had to swipe my keycard several times before the door opened. I tried not to glance back at him, but I did. He leaned against the doorjamb, deliciously naked. His cock was at full stand.
    If I was suffering through this, at least he was aching too.
    “Don’t forget,” he called in a singsong voice. “No touching.”
    * * * * *
     
    My shower that morning was a quick one. It was damn frustrating that the pulsating showerhead was right there within reach and I couldn’t use it on my steaming clit. But as frustrated as I was—and I was—I gloried in it.
    Every time I thought of the G-string he wanted me to wear—all day—every time I thought of him across the hall waiting for me, every time I thought of the coming inspection, my body seized. I was on razor wire, so close to orgasm I could almost taste it.
    Almost.
    But the decision before me was monumental. It was more than the mere choice of whether or not I would wear the G-string. It was bigger than that. The real question was—was I going to do this again? Would I take the risk? Could I?
    That’s the real trouble with addiction. You can love something and hate it at the same time. Not that I was addicted to sexual