“Touch your nipple."
I circle it with my fingertip. Slowly. Watching his expression crack—just a hairline fracture in that discipline, that composure, that maddening control.
"Lick it."
I hold his gaze. Lift my left breast. Lean down and run my tongue across the peak, slow and deliberate.
His whole body tenses. I can see it—the muscles in his forearm locking, his grip tightening, the rhythm of his hand changing.
I’m getting wetter by the second.
I bite down. Not gently. A small sound escapes me—involuntary, sharp.
"Naughty girl."
Two words. He said two words and I am completely undone. My hand is between my thighs before I consciously decide to put it there, fingers pressing against the soaked fabric of my underwear, and the relief is so acute I whimper.
"Move them aside," he says. "Let me see."
I do. Push the fabric to one side. Slide my fingers through the slick heat of myself while he watches through the screen with an intensity that makes my skin feel like it's being touched.
"You're so wet." He says it like it's a fact like he's memorizing it for later. "Is that for me?"
"Who else?" My voice is barely mine—thin, breathless. "You did this. Every day since the island. You—"
"Tell me what you've been thinking about."
"Your hands." My fingers circle my clit and my hips lift offthe bed. "The way you held me against the wall. The sounds you made when—"
"Keep going."
"Your mouth on me. The way you taste. The way you—"
I break off into a moan that's louder than I expect, and his hand moves faster on screen, his breath audible now, rough and catching.
"I want to be inside you right now," he says, and the words are not controlled, not measured, not the West who calculates everything three moves ahead.
This is the version of him that exists only when I've dismantled every wall. "I want to feel you come around me."
"I'm close—I'm already—" My fingers move faster, the pressure building in a way that's different from the island, different from his hands, but the same desperate climb toward something that feels like falling and flying at once.
"Talk to me—keep talking—"
"You're beautiful like this. Soaking wet. But I’m not there.” The words come out rough, almost angry about it. "Touch your clit, the way I showed you, Jane. Spread your legs wider. Slower. I want to watch."
His rhythm shifts—harder, less controlled. A rough exhale.
I spread my legs over the arms of my chair.
My fingers move. Circle. Press.
The tension builds—familiar now, the particular tightness he taught me to recognize, the coiling heat that starts low and spreads upward.
"There you go. I'm watching every second. Don't look away." His breath catches. "I want to lick your pussy till you’re pushing against my face, push my fingers inside of you, the way you like it, make your toes curl. You’re mine. You understand that?”
I nod my head, focusing on his voice.
A sharp inhale. "When I get my hands on you I'm going to make you earn it. Hold you right on the edge until you're begging me. You want that?"
