Page 59 of A Touch of Dark
There’s awe in his tone. Smugness too.
“I can accept my fingers just fine,” I snap.
“I can imagine.”
I jump at the barely concealed dare.So do it, then.
My fingers tremble as they brush over the fabric of my pants. Every cell in my body warns me to run. But I don’t. I find the drawstring instead, arching my hips to undo it.
And the atmosphere changes. His grip tightens, biting in deeper.
“It was here,” I tell him, sliding a hand between my legs. He shouldn’t be able to tell. I could be lying.
But he knows the second I make contact. His breathing changes. His posture tenses.
I’ve won the game.
But the rules have changed from here on out. It’s not enough to accept his dare. The second I attempt to pull my hand back, his falls over my wrist, conveying a silent command through only a subtle bit of pressure.
Show me.
I squeeze my eyes shut as traitorous heat builds and spreads. My legs drift apart before I can help it. My hand slips lower. His becomes a vise.
And nothing else matters. Not the thunder biting through the silence. Not lightning. Not Simon.
I touch myself.
He listens, inhaling harshly against my earlobe, his touch tracking every shameful motion.
It’s my previous show in HD surround sound.
And I don’t care if he records this moment and sends the tape to the news.
He makes for a chilling barrier against the darkness as heat builds inside me. For a dangerous second, I imagine his hand drifting lower and pushing mine out of the way…
A gasp slips from my throat and wetness coats my fingers. Too much. Too real.
“You’re close, aren’t you?” His lips part near my jaw and my nerves rattle. With one quip, he could devastate me. Humiliate. “Let go,” he demands instead, his voice like a spark over tinder.
I catch fire.
My eyes flutter shut as my back arches. I’m leaning against him. Into him, letting the heat drown out shame until all I can feel is an agonizing inferno.
“Should I paint you like this?” He sounds on the edge of a groan as I spasm against his chest.
At the back of my mind, I know I should be embarrassed. Horrified, even. Not writhing through every tortured second he extends his nearness.
“Coiled muscle, sweat-slick skin, panting,” he murmurs into my ear, painting a picture with his fucking voice alone. “Hang it where your father might see? His beautiful girl… So broken. So shameless.”
My face inflames at the thought and enough shame leeches into my dazed brain that I withdraw my hand. “Would you?”
A brush of his knuckles over my wrist doesn’t give me a solid answer. “How many fingers was it?” he wonders, half taunting, half serious. “That you used that night—”
I force out a laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
His own fingers flick my skin in tandem as if to convey silent guesses. One? Two? Five?
But he doesn’t force me any further, dragging me right to the edge of some invisible boundary that I didn’t even know was there.
