Page 17 of The Masquerade: Room 2

“Are you even listening to me?” Celest interjects.

“Sorry, what?”

“Who are you texting? Is it him?”

I’m suddenly shy. “Maybe.”

“You’re blushing. Are you sexting?” She reaches for my phone, but I slide it back in my purse.

“No.”

“Then why do you look guilty as hell right now?”

“He… he asked me to do something for him, but I can’t.”

“Tell me.”

I pull in a ragged breath, so turned on I can barely control the rise and fall of my chest. “He asked me to take off my panties. But I can’t. We’re in a public place. One wrong gust of wind and I’d be showing my sex to all of Manhattan.”

“First of all, you have to stop calling it your sex. You can say pussy. It’s hot. And you can absolutely take them off. Just run behind that tree and do it. It’ll only take a second. The thrill is in the fact that you could get caught. The breeze will feel so good, Freya. Trust me.”

We are not having this conversation right now. “You’ve done it before?”

“Of course. Nothing builds anticipation like a little pre-scene fun.”

“Is that what he’s doing? A scene.”

“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t keep him waiting.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I’ll keep watch.” We find a quiet spot in the trees, adrenaline pumping in my veins as I slip my hands up under my skirt and pull my panties down my legs. I scrunch them in my hands and snap a picture on my phone before slipping them in my purse.

When I emerge sans panties, Celest pins me with a wickedly sexy grin. “Doesn’t that feel better?”

The breeze kisses my skin, a jolt of desire going straight to my core. “I feel…”

“Naughty.”

“Yeah, and I kind of love it.”

She links her arm with mine, but I quickly pull it free when my phone buzzes. I have messages from him.

Sir: Have you done it yet?

Sir: I don’t like waiting, little one. If I message you, I expect a response, especially when I’ve given you an order.

Me: I’m sorry, Sir, I was talking with a friend.

I select the photograph of my panties in my hand and press send.

Sir: Good girl. I see you’re outside. Every time the breeze caresses your cunt, I want you to imagine what I’m going to do to you. Text me when you get home.

Me: Yes, Sir.

“What did he say?”

“That I should imagine what he’s going to do to my… cunt the next time he sees me.”

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