Showtime.

Keeping my eyes closed, I touch my breasts, cup their heavy weight in my palms, brushing my thumbs over my nipples. Once, twice, feeling them harden. I don’t say a word and neither does he, and I’m fine with that. More than fine with that, because I don’t want to say something stupid and ruin the moment.

I pinch one nipple lightly between my thumb and index finger, biting my lip to keep the little moan from escaping me when I feel the pleasurable pain shoot through me, and he notices. He notices everything.

“Don’t hold back,” he murmurs in encouragement. “I want to hear you.”

Ah God, he says things like that and I want to attack him. Demand that he be the one who brings me pleasure, not my own fingers.

But there’s pleasure to be found by letting him watch and I remember that, envisioning his handsome face captivated with me touching my breasts, circling my nipples, pinching them both at the same time so that the sharp gasp that fills the room is completely unrestrained.

I run my hands along my waist and hips, across my stomach, the light touch of my fingertips making goose bumps rise. A click sounds and a rush of cool air from the vents in the ceiling bathes my skin, making me shiver, making my nipples harden almost painfully, and I soothe them with my warm palms, clasping my hands over my breasts for a moment.

“Cold?” he asks.

I nod but say nothing, dropping my hands from my breasts and resting them on top of my thighs. My heart is racing so hard I swear he can probably see it pound against my chest, and I press my lips together, searching for the strength to finish this.

Can I do it? Touch myself in front of him, do all the little tricks I know to bring myself to orgasm? It’s never as satisfying with my own hand, not usually. More like a quick relief, a way for me to release some tension before I go to sleep. A vibrator brings me the longer, fuller body orgasms, yet compared to Ryder’s mouth? His fingers?

They’re in a league all their own.

“Touch yourself.”

His voice urges me on and I slide my hands to my inner thighs and stroke languidly, teasing myself. That’s half the buildup, the tease. The quick, featherlike strokes, the barely there caresses, all of it increases the throb between my legs until it’s all I can focus on, and I let my right hand drift until my fingers graze the thin strip of pubic hair that covers my mound.

My body jerks at first touch, and I’m shocked that I can elicit such a reaction out of myself. That usually only happens when someone else touches me, not by my own hand …

I’m spread wide open, so there’s no being coy here. I touch myself blatantly, streaking my fingers down my wet center, pressing my finger into the middle of my folds. They’re slick with my juices, I can hear my fingers as I search myself, circling my fingertips lightly, stroking over my clit.

“Jesus, you’re wet,” he says, his voice hoarse.

Triumph surges through me and I arch my back, eager to give him more of a show. He sounds as if he’s in absolute agony and I love it. Thrive on it. I prop my feet flat on the table and thrust a finger deep inside my body, then two fingers, but that’s not what really gets me off. I’m doing this for his benefit. I’m putting on a show just for him.

“Do you like that?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious. “Fucking yourself with your fingers?”

“I’d rather have your fingers inside me,” I tell him breathlessly.

“I’m sure.” His voice deepens and I hear the chair creak as he shifts. “Show me what you like.”

“I am.” I press my thumb against my clit, remembering how he did the same to me last night, and a tiny but powerful shudder moves through my body.

“Do you ever touch yourself while you’re alone in bed?” he asks, and I nod my answer. “Then show me how you get off, Violet. Make yourself come for me. That’s what I want to see.”

I withdraw my fingers from my body and slide them up, over my clit. It’s swollen and tingly, indicating I’m already close, which is like a miracle. It usually takes me long minutes before I’m even near orgasm, but this moment has everything to do with Ryder watching me and nothing else.

Increasing my pace, I circle my clit again and again, rubbing it faster, feeling the rush rise within me. I squeeze my eyes closed tight and lift my hips, my fingers working furiously over my clit, the sound of my heavy breathing joining with Ryder’s, and then I’m coming. The orgasm wracks my body with uncontrollable shaking and I cry out, the throb and pulse of my clit, of my empty inner walls, making me wish I could experience this climax with him inside of me.

But I guess I’ll settle for the next best thing. The man himself, sitting in front of me, watching me masturbate.

This is truly by far the craziest thing I’ve ever done.

I’m lying on the table with one arm draped over my eyes, trying to catch my breath, when I feel his fingers grip my ankles and his breath tickles my sex. And then his mouth is there, licking and sucking, his lips latching onto my clit, driving me into another orgasm that bolts through me like a streak of lightning, hot and quick and a flash of white that sends me spiraling completely out of control.

His mouth leaves my sex and then he’s tugging on my hands, pulling me into a sitting position so he can wrap his arms around my waist. I circle his hips with my legs and press against him, feeling his hard, hot length strain against his trousers. He kisses me, his mouth ravaging mine, his lips and tongue tasting like me, and I revel in it. Kiss him hungrily, like I’m starved for him, which I am.