Chapter Eleven
Fiona
My eyes holding Bryce’s, I move my hand to the side and lower the zipper hidden under the rows of tiny pearls. The bodice hangs forward, gaping open. I tug at the ribbon at the small of my back, and the tight clutch of the fabric loosens.
I slowly lower the dress, inch by inch. His eyes follow, the intensity searing my skin. Triumph thrums in my veins.
Just as the neckline is about to dip below my nipples, I stop. “Does this count as one? After all, I need to work on reducing the three hundred.”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “That depends on how far you take it.” His voice remains hard, with a hint of guttural roughness that wasn’t there before.
“We’re going as far as we need to,” I purr, then let the dress glide down my skin, the chiffon whispering in the silent room. The silk caresses my nipples, then strokes my belly like a lover’s touch.
His eyes flare as he realizes I’m not wearing anything under the bodice. My nipples bead in the cool air. I rock my hips slightly, helping the dress slip past.
The white fabric pools at my feet, the copious material covering up to my shin. I stand in front of Bryce in nothing but a garter belt andwhite silk stockings, no other underwear. I waxed two days ago, so there’s not a strand of hair on me.
Heat erupts in Bryce’s eyes, but he doesn’t move. The tent at his crotch rises higher. I drop my eyes, then lift them to meet his.
I step out of the dress I despise and sit on the glass-top coffee table. It’s so low my knees go higher than my hips. Putting a hand behind me for balance, I slowly spread my legs. His gaze drops to my most private flesh, the impact sending sizzles up my spine.
“Like it?” I say. “Never seen me waxed before, have you?” I take my index and middle fingers and run them gently over the soft folds on either side of my pussy, not showing him the prize. Not yet.
“Spread them,” he orders me, unblinking. He reaches for his glass, then stops, as though belatedly realizing he knocked back his whiskey already.
Licking my lips, I slip my index finger between the folds without spreading them. I stroke my clit leisurely, eliciting a soft sigh of satisfaction. I might be exaggerating my reaction a little, but it isn’t difficult to be turned on. Bryce has always had an irresistible ability to make my blood boil.
I move the finger lower, gliding it along the slickening flesh until it reaches my pussy. I tease the opening, biting my lip. Heat curls in my belly.
He unbuttons his shirt—although he had two undone already. His cheeks flush—a sign he’s seriously turned on. I widen my knees, moving my finger more vigorously over myself. Every stroke bumps against my clit, and the wetness spreads.
“Fuck yourself with your fingers.”
I only push in one finger, my eyes defiant. I know I’m being naughty and challenging, but I don’t care. I want to show him he doesn’t hold all the cards just because he tries to make me feel cheap.
His jaw stiffens. He tightens his hand around his whiskey glass. I push another finger in, then pump them the way I like the most. Fast, but not so fast that I’m chasing a quick climax. I move my pelvis to the rhythm.
The pleasure builds much more quickly than I expected. I haven’t had a decent orgasm in ages, the kind that leaves you shaking to thecore. By all rights I shouldn’t have one now either, but Bryce’s gaze upon me intensifies every sensation.
“Fuck yourself to an orgasm if you want this to count.”
At his velvety command, my breathing shallows. Although the wickedness of having him watch me masturbate is a huge turn-on, I can’t seem to go over. I thrust harder. My muscles grip my fingers, but something is missing.
I need a vibrator, I realize. I’m not going to come like this.
Dismay ripples, then is quickly replaced by another thought—Just fake it. Nobody’s going to know.
I faked it all the time with Jude, and he never noticed. Men only see what they want to see.
I pump my fingers faster and arch my back, moving my hips. Then I squeeze my eyes shut and let out a soft scream, quiver a little and then pant as I slowly “relax.”
After a few minutes, I pretend like I’ve recovered. But when I open my eyes, Bryce is looming over me, his hands on each side of my head, his crotch close to my pussy. He’s still in his clothes, but I can see the strong chest through the gap in his shirt.
I gasp, and he lowers his face closer to mine. His eyes roam over my every feature, as though he’s seeing me for the first time. “When did you learn to play such a transparent trick?”
“Wh-what do you mean?” I stammer.
“Come on. Faking, sweetheart?”
