Page 53 of Faded Rhythm

I freeze.

“What makes you think I’m wet?”

Silence.

“Goodnight, Sable.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, frustrated to the point of rage. Pressing my thighs together does nothing. Biting the inside of my cheek does nothing.

So I slide my hand down, touching myself again, hoping for some relief.

It helps a little.

Back and forth, around and around, I massage my clit, breathing deep. I just need to fall asleep. That’s all. Put myself out of my misery. Sweet, sweet sleep.

“Give me your hand.”

My eyes open with a jolt. “Why?”

“Give me your hand,” he repeats.

“No.”

A few seconds pass.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I—“

“You’re touching yourself. Now give me your hand so I can see if I was right.”

“No.”

He’s so fast, I barely register it. In one swift motion, he has his fingers around my wrist, yanking my arm from beneath the covers and lifting it to his face. I’m opening my mouth to protest when I feel his tongue swipe across my fingertips. My breath catches in my chest. My stomach clenches. Then he sucks them into his mouth, and a small moan escapes my lips.

His tongue swirls languidly over my fingertips, tasting the best part of me.

“It’s wet. That’s what the fuck I thought,” he says, his voice dark and thick with desire.

He releases my wrist. For a moment, it’s silent other than the sound of our breathing. I’m too stunned to speak. Too disoriented to move.

“Sweet dreams,” he says, and I can almost hear him smirking.

“Is that what you do?” I say. “Pull away before you get a chance to enjoy something? Is that how you punish yourself?”

He scoffs. “You’re married.”

“And you kissed me. So finish what you started.”

It’s silent. He’s still. I turn my head and catch the moonlight reflecting in his eyes. They’re fixed on the ceiling.

“King,” I plead.

“Go to sleep, Sable.”

I have nothing to lose at this point, so I roll onto my side, ease my hand under the covers, and slide it past the waistband of his boxers. His breath hitches when my fingers curl around his hard length, and my mouth waters when I imagine it pushing past my lips and tapping the back of my throat.

“How did I taste?” I say softly. “Did I taste good?”

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