The way Fern's fingers linger on my thigh when she thinks I'm not paying attention—those quiet, possessive touches that say more than words ever could. Tonight, I turned the tables. Pushed her back onto the bed, straddled her hips, and made her watch as I slid two fingers into my own dripping cunt, showing her exactly how wet she makes me. Her breath hitched, her composure cracking like thin ice. 'You want to taste it?' I whispered, dragging my soaked fingers over her lips. The way her tongue darted out, desperate and obedient, was all the answer I needed. Sometimes, it's not about taking control—it's about showing her how badly she craves to give it up. (And she does. Oh, she does.)