Page 50 of Liars and Liaisons

I’m right in front of her face when she sucks in a deep breath, then releases it with a harsh exhale. My mouth opens, tasting the air as it leaves her body.

“You can pretend you don’t wantme,” I growl, so close that I can see the sweat dotting her skin.

She squeezes her tit, and the soft sounds coming from somewhere in her throat ensnare me, unrelenting in their grip. I wish I could record them, keep them to play on an loop for the rest of my life.

Her moans are the sounds I want to be lowered into the ground to.

“When you envision the mask, it can be anyone. You’re free to be uninhibited, and you don’t have to feel bad about it. It’s just you, touching yourself for your masked figure. Nobody else for those few moments in time. And that feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Oh God.”

“Answer the question, dirty girl.”

“Sogood.”

“Push your fingers in.”

Her eyes fly open, and I lash out without thinking, covering them before either of us has a chance to regret the touch.

“Do it,” I command, not giving us time to read into the situation beyond the palpable lust swirling around us. “Slide them in and let them fill you up.”

It seems to take a minute, but finally, she lets out a little puff of broken air, sagging slightly against the tub.

“Oh my God,” she whispers, the sound filled with awe. “So full.”

Not as full as you will be.

My dick throbs to the point of pain, but I ignore it. I’m desperate now, dying to watch her come.

“Pump slowly and curl the tips until you think you might pass out.”

She moans softly, and I lean in just enough for her breath to caress my face, my lips. Anywhere I can get it.

“Who’s fucking you with their fingers?” I ask, though the words come out breathless and strained. “In the fantasy, I mean.”

“I-I don’t—”

Leaning closer, until our lips are just a centimeter apart, I ask, “Who is it? Who’s behind the mask that you’re so eager to come for?”

She doesn’t answer. Her breathing hitches, and her head jerks against my palm as her face flushes.

“Fuck,” I mutter, gritting my teeth hard enough to crack a molar when she tweaks her nipple, then slides her hand up her throat, collaring herself like she isn’t exactly sure where to grab.

She’s flailing, lost in the throes of passion, and I have a front row seat.

“You’re close, aren’t you?”

She nods, frantic.

“Words, Violet.”

“I’m close,” she pants, her back slipping against the porcelain. “I’m ready, please. I want to come for you.”

The soft pleas catch me by surprise, but I quickly recover. Gently, I remove my hand and meet her dark, hypnotic gaze. Wickedness pulses in those smoky-quartz irises, and a part of me wonders if I got it all wrong about her being sunshine and innocence.

The eyes don’t lie, and hers paint a picture of decadence and sin.

Perhaps she just needs a hand in unleashing it.

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