“Fine,” I said. “Then I get to make up rules, too.”
“Anything, Firecracker.”
“You’re not allowed to touch yourself.”
A low curse sounded. More rustling.
“Were you already touching yourself, Mitchell? Thinking of me here in the tub?”
“What do you think, Winona?”
A charge snapped directly between my legs at the thought of his hand on himself. “Where are your hands now?”
“One’s under the pillow. The other’s holding the phone.”
“Maybe you should turn over so you’re not tempted.”
More muffled sounds. “Done.”
“Good boy.”
He made a sound of displeasure. But he’d obeyed without question.
I drew my hand up my stomach, delighting in this newfound power. I bit my lip, releasing it to ask, “Is your cock hard, Mitchell?”
“Yes.” The word sounded like it came through his teeth.
“Good.” I danced my fingers over my skin. “My hand is close to my left breast, Mitchell. What should I do?”
“Cup it. Run your fingers over your nipple.”
“Please?”
“Fuck. Please, Winona.”
I curled my hand under my breast and gave my nipple a little pinch, breathing sharply at the contact. “Oh, Mitchell.”
“Fuck.” I heard him shift.
“I wish it were your hand,” I breathed.
More shifting.
“No touching, Mitchell.”
“I’m doing my best.”
I moved my hand to my other breast. “I’m touching the other one.”
Some distant part of me recognized how unlike me this was. Since when did I initiate phone sex? Since when did I let myself feel pleasure and have fun without considering the consequences?
Since Mitchell.
That responsible part of me sounded alarm bells. But I ignored those, dunking that voice in the soapy bathwater.
I tapped my camera app. “Want to see, Mitchell?”
Without waiting for him to answer, I snapped a photo of my soapy chest, my fingers pinching my already pointed nipple. I sent it to him before I could change my mind. Adrenaline coursed through me. Desire rode its back.
