“Wait.”
“You wait?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t fuck yourself?”
“Sometimes. If I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself when I see you.” Impatience drips into his voice. “If I can’t take the agony of waiting anymore.”
“What would happen? If you couldn’t control yourself?”
“I’d pin you to the table in the restaurant. Roll your knickers to your ankles. Dive between your legs.”
“You’d fuck me?”
“Taste you. Then fuck you.”
“Oh.”
His voice drops to something impossibly demanding. “Lie down.”
“Okay.” I lower myself completely onto the bed.
“Sheets out of the way.”
I push them aside.
“Touch yourself. Your breasts to start.”
I don’t usually play with my breasts. But with him listening… there’s something about knowing I’m being watched.
Fuck, I’m already on edge.
It’s like he’s touching me.
A gasp falls from my lips. “Will you?”
“Will I what, vixen?”
“Fuck yourself.”
“Now?”
“After.”
“If you ask me to.” It’s there again. That dare. That demand.
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
“You’re hard?”
“Very.” His voice drops. “I’m in control now, vixen. You do exactly what I say. Understand?”
“Yes.”
He lets out a low groan of pleasure. “Is there a mirror in your room?”
“Yes.”
“Can you arrange it so you can see yourself?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good girl.”
Fuck. I can barely move. My knees knock together as I slide out of the bed.
There’s a mirror hanging from my door. Normally, I use it to check my outfit. But this…
I take it off the hook. Tilt it against the wall so it’s facing the bed.
It’s not perfect, but it’s a start. I climb into bed. Turn the other way. So it’s easier to see my reflection. “Done.”
“Show me.”
I don’t think. I take a picture of my reflection. Send it to him.
“Fuck.” His voice is a low groan. “Perfect.”
My fingers dig into the sheets.
“Now, lie back. With your head toward the mirror. Watch everything you do.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“I’m going to ask you to do it again. For me. In front of me.”
“When?”
“After I’ve fucked you. I don’t have the self-control to watch you fuck yourself and not touch you.”
Fuck, yes. I let out a sound that’s a collection of vowels.
He understands my meaning. “Now, eyes on the mirror as you play with your tits.”
I watch my hand go to my chest. My fingers close around my nipple. It’s not the same as watching him toy with me, but knowing he’s on the line—
It’s intense.
Overwhelming.
Only the sound of the fan.
My heavy exhale.
His steady breath.
He waits until I let out a groan. “What do you want, vixen?”
“You.”
“How?”
“Inside me. Touching me. Tasting me. Groaning my name.”
“Do you want to come?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
I slip my hand beneath my bellybutton. Let my legs fall to the sides.
For a moment, I watch my reflection. Watch as I draw circles around my clit.
It’s so strange. I’ve never thought about how I looked. Never found thrill in masturbation.
Sure, I enjoy it. But I’ve never considered it sexy, really.
More… effective.
Right now, with Ian’s breath in my ears—
“Fuck.” My eyelids flutter closed. My breath hitches.
I work those steady circles. No teasing. No toying. No drawing it out.
Exactly the pressure I need. Exactly the spot I need it.
Steady circles.
Winding me tighter and tighter.
My breaths run together. Turn to groans.
His name falls off my lips.
I’m so close. Too close.
“Watch,” he orders.
My eyes blink open. Go straight to my reflection. The flush of my cheeks. The heave of my chest. The squeeze of my toes.
Slow circles.
Again and again.
“Come for me, vixen,” he demands.
It pushes me over the edge. With the next brush of my fingers, the tension winds to a finger pitch. Impossibly taut. About to snap.
Then it does.
It unravels. Taking me with it. Sending a wave of pleasure through my body.
It knocks me onto my back.
My sex pulses.
My eyes close.
My fingers dig into my thighs.
His name falls from my lips again. Like he’s here. Like he’s watching. Like this is for him.
No. It is for him.
He is here. Listening, but still here.
He waits until my breath steadies. “Good girl.”
Fuck. I’m ready to go again. But I don’t want my hand. “I want you.”
“Soon.”
“You promise?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Soon.” He lets out a soft laugh.
My shoulders fall. But my sex keeps whining. “Tonight?”
“I can’t tonight. I’ll call tomorrow.”
“You’ll call…”
“To listen to you fuck yourself.”
“Oh.”
“Unless that’s a problem.”
No. Except that… I want him here. I want his body pressed against mine. I want his lips on my lips.
Not just because I want to fuck him.
For all the other reasons too.
“I could come over. So you can watch properly.” My breath catches in my throat. I’m at the edge again, only it’s a different one. I want his yes, his approval, his need.
“Tomorrow night,” he says. “Seven. I’ll send instructions.”
Relief spreads through my limbs like wildfire.
I’m too far gone.
But I don’t care.
I need to take whatever he’s offering. Everything he’s offering.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Ian
She’s perfect. Too perfect.
She talks literature at dinner. Why The Hunger Games is unappreciated in the “war is hell genre.” Do I have insights, as a former member of the military? It doesn’t have the realism of All’s Quiet on the Western Front or The Things They Carried, sure, but it’s every bit as intimate.