His eyes widen as if he’s surprised I’ve agreed. He tightens his grip on my breast again, then drags his hand over its outer curve, then higher, over my collarbone and up the length of my neck. “We’re only doing foreplay.”
I nod aggressively.
His lips curve into a wicked smile. His fingers glide along my jaw, then to the side of my chin. “We’re in agreement then,” he says, his lips just an inch from mine. He holds my gaze a moment longer, then tugs my chin, pulling my gaze to our reflection. “Watch carefully or this lesson will go to waste.”
He removes his fingers from my chin and brings them to his lips. I watch his every move with hungry fascination as he rolls his tongue over his fore and middle fingers, depositing saliva onto them. Then he brings those digits down to my breast, over my nipple, and rolls his slick fingers over it. I gasp, my knees buckling. I would have fallen if his other hand hadn’t caught me, now under my skirt and braced over my lower belly.
“You like that?” he asks. “Does that make up for that asshole who didn’t fucking touch you right?
“Yes.” But not enough. I arch my back, willing my bodice to slide down. Finally, my other breast crests the top.
“You want me to pay attention to the other one now? Good girl. I can read you like a book.” He licks his fingers again and plays with my other nipple, eliciting the sharpest, most delectable pleasure. I only wish it was his tongue instead of his fingers. My lashes flutter closed until he gives my nipple a little pinch. “Keep your eyes open.”
I do as he says and watch as his fingers round one curve of my breast, then the other.
“Fuck, look at you.” His eyelids are as heavy as mine. “You’re so goddamned beautiful.”
His words have my knees buckling again, but there’s so much more I want from him. I slide my hand under my skirt until it rests over his. Then, trying—and failing—not to rush, I push his hand down, guiding it beneath the waistband of my undershorts to the mound of curls there.
“You’re ready for me to touch you here?”
“Please.” The word comes out half gasp, half cry. I’ve never been more ready. More desperate.
His hand leaves my breast to join the other beneath my skirt. Then he lowers my silk undershorts, shimmying them over my hips, my thighs, until they fall to my feet. I step out of them and kick them to the side. I nearly weep with relief as he brings his hand back where I want it. Then slowly—so slowly—he slides his fingers down until they meet my sex.
A whimper escapes my throat as his digit skates over my slick center.
“Fuck, Daph,” he says with a groan. “You’re dripping wet for me.”
He slides his fingers over my folds, and my legs give out completely. This time, instead of holding me up, he helps me down to my knees, seating himself behind me, and letting me rest against him.
His palm goes still over my sex and our eyes lock in the mirror. “Do you want to watch what I do?”
I nod.
“Lift your hem.”
With trembling fingers, I drag my hem up over my thighs, tucking my voluminous skirts away to get a full look at Monty’s hand. With his other, he gently guides my knees wider. I watch as my center parts, watch as Monty’s fingers begin moving again.
“Look at that,” he says, dragging two fingers along opposite sides of my center before circling my aching clitoris. I moan and throw my head back against him but manage to keep my eyes open as I witness every tantalizingly slow movement. His other hand returns to my breast where he does the same motion to my nipple. My entire torso is bare now, my dress hardly more than a puddle of silk around my middle. I watch with rapt fascination, equally turned on by the pleasure of his touch and the arousal of witnessing it happening.
I’ve never imagined anything so erotic. So all-encompassing.
My desire builds, craving more. I arch my back and roll my sex against his hand. He obeys my silent command and slides his fingers down.
“You’re doing such a good job,” he says against my ear as his fingers tease just outside my glistening opening. “Such a good girl.”
“I’m hardly doing anything,” I manage to say, even though his praise sends a renewed jolt of pleasure through me.
“You are. The way you move speaks volumes. Every roll of your hips, every gasp. I hear you, Daph. Feel you. I know what you want now.” With that, he plunges his finger inside me. He pumps it in and out of me, then adds another.
I reach behind me, gripping the back of his neck as he lowers his lips to the side of my throat. A thrill runs through me at the thought that he might kiss me. Who would have thought I’d be so shocked by a kiss after what we’re already doing? But he doesn’t. He merely drags his mouth over my skin, then bares his teeth, as if it takes all his restraintnotto kiss me. Does it even count if it’s not on the mouth?
He thrusts his fingers deeper. I rock against him as he picks up his pace, riding his palm as it rubs over my clit. My pleasure builds hotter, my release welling up like a raging tide against a dam. He lifts his eyes, mouth still pressed against my throat, and they lock on his hand in the mirror.
“God, that’s fucking art,” he says. “Do you see that? Do you see how beautiful that is?”
“Yes,” I say, but I’m looking at his face. At the want in his eyes. At the strain in his jaw, the pulse in his temples, the pleasure in the curve of his mouth. Somehow, even though I’m the one being stroked and sated, he’s enjoying this too. His cock continues to dig into my backside with every rock of my hips. “You feel so good around my fingers. Look so good grinding against my hand.”
