My heart pounds, and my panties get wetter. “Now?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“With or without my underwear?”
“However you like it.”
Fuck the voices shaming me in my head.
I’ll deal with them tomorrow.
Or never.
I pull one leg up and reach between my thighs. He shifts to give me room, his eyes following my hand.
“I don’t usually—use—just my fingers,” I whisper as I stroke myself lightly over my soaked panties.
He knows. He saw.
My entire collection of personal satisfaction tools was scattered across my room.
My bedroom flashes in my mind, everything wrecked and tossed, and I shiver again.
Davis’s voice penetrates the memory. “What do you use?”
Never.Ever.Ever, in the history of me dating, has a man asked me what adult toy I use to masturbate.
Probably because of how I pick—pickedmen.
I slip my finger under my panties and stroke the slick skin, up to my clit. “Depends—on my mood.”
“What are you in the mood for now?”
You.
Not letting that one slip.
Not a chance.
But the question makes my vagina ache harder.
So does the timbre of his voice in the darkness. “Is your own hand enough, or would you like assistance?”
I shiver again, but this is pure hormones.
Have I ever been this turned on in my life?
I don’t think so.
And every time he speaks, I get wound a little tighter.
“I—would love—assistance.”
“How?”
I tickle my clit and look up at the ceiling, my breath coming fast. “Take—my panties—off.”
“Like this?” He hooks a thumb under my waistband and tugs gently, and I instinctively lift my hips.
