Her breathing hitches. “Mmm, Donovan… I want your hands on me.”
My grip tightens on the phone. “Fuck, Stell—”
“Shh.” A cut of sound. “You don’t talk unless I tell you to. You’re mine tonight. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” It leaves me raw.
Her smile is small, sharp. “Good boy. Now… take off your shirt.”
I set the phone against the headboard. Strip. Toss. She watches.
“Everything.”
The air grows thinner. I push my shorts and briefs down, cock heavy. My hand starts to move—
“Ah-ah. Hands behind your head.”
My body locks. My dick twitches. She’s not touching me, but it feels like she is.
“That’s better,” she murmurs, fingers slipping over the lace between her thighs. “I like knowing you’re sitting there like that—hard, and not allowed to do a damn thing about it.”
Silence stretches until my breathing sounds too loud.
“You want to be here, don’t you?”
“More than anything.”
“You want to worship me.”
“Yes.”
“Then watch.”
Her hand moves under the lace. Her chest lifts. Her lips part. She’s unmaking me with every breath.
The straps slide down her arms, her breasts spill free, and my hands twitch before I can stop them.
“Not yet.”
The ache climbs into my ribs. I’m on the edge of begging when she finally says, “Touch yourself. But don’t you dare finish before me.”
It’s a rush of air. My hand wraps around myself, pace locked to hers. My eyes never leave her.
She gasps my name, tight and breaking, and I follow—helpless.
Her smile is soft and lethal. “Good boy. Now go to sleep dreaming about how I’m going to ruin you this weekend.”
And I will.
Two days later, I step off the plane in Agave Hills. My carry-on is still on my shoulder when I see her.
She’s leaning against the wall like she owns the terminal—until she spots me. Then she’s running, airborne, arms around my neck, legs locked at my waist.
It’s been weeks. It feels like years.
I carry her to the car. Her mouth is on mine before we’re out of the lot. I drive too fast, too recklessly, until the desert opens and the mountain appears.
Our cove.
