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Hot, potent, irresistible, drool-inducing desire.

As for my hand? My hand is drifting south without my permission, fingers trailing across my stomach toward the hem of this silly red dress.

The silk bunches around my hips as I keep going. My other hand finds my breast through the thin fabric, palming the weight of it, thumb circling my nipple until it peaks against the material. I bite down on the inside of my cheek.

On the other side of the door, Lukas’s breathing grows rougher. The shuffling quickens.

I wasn’t wearing any panties under this dress, so when my fingers reach between my legs, they drag through wetness. I’m embarrassingly turned on, slick and swollen and aching in a way I’ve never experienced before. Not with my vibrator back home, nor with any of the fumbling, disappointing encounters that make up my pathetic dating history.

This is different.

I blamehim.

I part my folds with two fingers and orbit my clit. I’m just teasing at first, but when the whole day has already been one long tease, it turns out I don’t need much. The first proper stroke sends a jolt of pleasure through me so intense I have to clamp my free hand over my mouth to stifle the whimper that tries to escape.

Through the door, I hear him grunt. It’s so male, guttural and justfilthy.

Meanwhile, I’m rubbing my clit in tight, deliberate strokes, matching the rhythm I imagine his hand is making around his cock. Is he thinking about the dress? About tearing it off me with his teeth, like he threatened? About spreading me open and?—

Another sound from him. Almost pained this time.

My back arches off the mattress. I slide one finger inside myself, then two, curling them up toward my belly button while my thumb keeps working my clit.

Stay quiet, Rae. He can’t know. He can’t…

But then again, why can’t he?

Why amIthe one who has to suffer in silence while he gets to grunt and groan on the other side of that door?

I think of the princess again. The crocodiles. The consequences. And I decide…

Fuck it.

I let the moan slip free.

It’s soft. Not much more than a breath, really. A delicate little whine that passes my lips before I can second-guess myself.

For one horrible, stretched-out second, I think I’ve miscalculated. Is he going to storm off in disgust? Have I’ve finally pushed too far?—?

And then Lukasgroans.

It’s deep, tortured, and most of all,intentional. It’s a response to my mating call—I know that in the marrow of my bones.

It means he heard me.

He knows.

And he’s not stopping.

I’m getting bolder now, drunk on Bordeaux’s finest and Brooklyn’s worst. My fingers move faster, slicker, more urgent. I spread my legs wider and one knee falls to the side as I work myself with shameless abandon.

Through the door, Lukas’s pace matches mine. I can hear the wet sound of his hand on his cock, the panting that punctuates each stroke. We’re moving in tandem, separated by a flimsy little door and a lifetime of reasons this shouldn’t be happening.

I don’t care about any fucking one of them.

My fingers are knuckles-deep inside myself, but I imagine it’s Lukas’s hand instead, those scarred, powerful fingers doing what he promised.

I’d spread you open with fingers until your throat gave out from crying.