His voice. Low and unhurried and absolutely certain. The raspy tone that means he knows where this is going and he's going to take his time getting there.
I hold his gaze through the screen. My fingers find the zipper.
Pull it down. Slowly.
The hoodie falls open and the push-up bra does what seventy-five dollars of underwire was engineered to do—and his jaw tightens.
A visible flex of muscle. The lamp behind him casting his cheekbones in sharp relief.
"There she is."
Quiet. Like he's been waiting specifically for this.
The way he says that. Like I'm something he's been thinking about in the dark.
I'm going to need medical intervention.
"Skirt," he says. "Lift it."
I swallow—and obey.
Slowly.
Bunching the soft fabric of upward until the damp fabric of my underwear is visible on screen.
I watch him watch me—his gaze dropping, locking.
The stillness of him is almost more dangerous than movement.
“Look at you.”
His voice is rougher now.
“Jane.”
The way he says my name feels like contact.
I don’t hide. I don’t angle away.
I let him see what he’s done.
He exhales once, sharp.
Then he shifts. Unhurried.
He removes his shirt, then lowers his pants andunderwear.
Wrapping around himself on screen with the deliberate confidence of a man who commands space even alone.
Even here. Even two hundred miles away through a screen, he fills the room.
"Look at you." His voice is rough now. Fraying at the edges.
"Show me your breasts."
My fingers shake—just slightly—as I pull the bra cups down. The cool air of my apartment hits my skin and my nipples tighten immediately, and I don't hide them. Don't angle away. Let him see.
"Squeeze your breasts for me.” I can hear the raspiness of his voice. A pant.
