Page 69

Thirty seconds bled away. The silence of the city roared in Victoria’s ears.

Emma: What?

Then, a few seconds later another text appeared on Victoria’s screen.

Okay, it's off.

A shuddering breath escaped Victoria’s lips. The visual was consuming: Emma bare in the dark, waiting for her instruction. The dynamic had inverted, becoming sharp and intoxicating.

Victoria: Good. Open your legs for me. Don't touch yourself. Just tell me you did what I asked.

A few seconds dragged past. Victoria’s knuckles went pale around the glass casing of the phone. When the three dots finally collapsed into text, Emma’s voice felt close enough to brush against her ear.

Emma: I did.

Victoria didn't give her room to breathe.

Victoria: Slide two fingers inside. Slowly. Tell me how wet you are for me.

The wait this time was torturous. Victoria found her own breath growing ragged, her thighs clenching against the fabric of her trousers. The city below had vanished. Her world had narrowed to the tiny screen in her palm and the vision of Emma lying open on their bed an ocean away.

Emma: I'm soaking wet. Victoria, please.

The use of her name, with no defenses left, hit Victoria low and sharp. She tapped out the next instruction with cold, deliberate precision.

Victoria: Circle your clit with your thumb. Keep those fingers buried deep. Don't you dare come until I give you permission.

The ellipsis appeared, stuttered, disappeared, and reappeared.

Emma: It’s not enough. My fingers aren't enough, Victoria. I need your mouth on me.

The blunt, desperate admission tore through Victoria’s restraint. Text on a screen was suddenly intolerable; she needed the real friction of Emma’s breath, the break in her voice, the hitch in her chest when she lost control.

She pressed the call button and brought the handset to her ear, listening to the transatlantic ring scrape against the silence.

It rang once before Emma answered. The line was saturated with the sound of a broken exhale.

"Victoria," Emma whispered.

The name hit her like a physical weight. Victoria leaned back into the armchair, closing her eyes against the glare of the Chicago skyline. She didn't bother with a greeting. The time for polite hesitation had expired the moment those texts were delivered, and she knew Emma was already lying bare in the dark, waiting for her.

"Put the phone on speaker," Victoria instructed, her tone low and raw, without a trace of boardroom veneer. "Set it next to your pillow."

A rustle of sheets echoed through the receiver, followed by a muted click. "Okay."

"Are you still touching yourself?" Victoria asked.

"Yes." The word trembled.

"Good girl."

The praise made Emma catch her breath with an audible, sharp gasp. Victoria unbuttoned her blazer with one hand, letting the wool slide off her shoulders, but she didn't reach for her trousers. Her body was strung impossibly tight, every nerve ending hyper-attuned to the speaker.

"Push those fingers deeper," Victoria commanded. "Slow, Emma. Close your eyes and think about the last time I had you on that bed. Don’t rush, I know I wouldn’t… Let me hear you breathe."

"It’s not… the same," Emma confessed, her breathing turning shallow and uneven. "Every time I push deeper, I just want it to be your fingers. Please, Victoria. Talk to me. Don't stop, I’m already so close."

"My hands are pinning your wrists to the mattress," Victoria murmured, stepping effortlessly into the psychological space Emma had cleared for her. The sheer command in her own voice sent a dark warmth straight through her belly, an ache so concentrated it made her thighs tense against the armchair. "I’m leaning over you, my mouth right against your jaw, breathing in the scent of your skin. My knee is wedged between your thighs, making you stay wide open for me. I’m not letting you move until I say so. Tell me you can feel how close I am."