[ actions come with consequences. now, and always. and in this particular moment, she imagines there's nothing worse than the consequence that comes with whatever action (or inaction, as the case may be) her freed hand manages to take. that sudden cliff-edge of no contact, none outside of how he traps her fingers again, does more to put a frustrated squirm through her body than all the previous efforts combined.

she knows what he's doing; he's playing famine against more famine -- so much so that, after a tickling puff of air on her bare skin, she's more than prepared to look on his earlier half-measure ministrations and miss them. want them.

crave them, in point of fact.

because all at once she has to ask herself what she wouldn't give just to feel the wet warm pressure of his mouth from behind silk once more. something would be less maddening than nothing. so she stops trying to wrestle free from his hands and instead holds onto his fingers like anchor points. tying herself to him -- committed, truly, to whatever comes next.

except... ]

There's no good answer, [ she complains -- but in a voice dark like hunger and thick like honey. and before she continues, she sucks in a stiff breath that dovetails into a whimper. one real and honest, betraying how close he is to being right. ] No matter what's said, you'll still be just as frustrating as you set out to be.

[ -- her grip goes slack in his. gently, affectionately, she traces little loving circles against his knuckles. it's a bid to be a different kind of persuasive as another puff of air feathers across her skin. fucking hell -- the gentle persuasive approach will be the death of her.

nevertheless, there is a hint of a truly plaintive tone when she whispers again: ]

Please won't change a thing.

[ one last tactic: to goad him into giving a firm promise. to give his word that all she needs to do is ask and he'll give her want she wants. ]