Page 73 of All Twerk, No Play

“Yeah,” I exhaled like I’d sprinted a mile. His tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, sliding a fingertip underneath the lace. His pupils dilated as he skimmed the smooth skin of my mound.

“You got waxed,” he said, voice full of wonder. “For your date?”

“No, weeks ago,” I said. I preferred the smooth skin against my clothes and hated the insecurity of being unprepared.

“Tell me what you want,” he said as the pads of his fingertips explored the delicate lace of my panties, inducing a ragged breath. They swept along the fabric over my core, then moved away. He chuckled at my annoyed reaction as his moist fingertip drew a soft circle against my sensitive skin, avoiding the place where I needed him the most.

I wanted him to quit playing…Yet the words got trapped in my throat.

“I can’t read your mind, Victoria,” he said as my hips shifted, silently begging for more, “so you have to tell me what you want.”

“Touch me,” I breathed.

“I am,” he said smugly, moving his rough palms to the tops of my thighs. “Is that what you mean?”

When I glared, he tapped a rhythm on my knee, waiting for my instruction.

This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? To be in control?

And yet, the words evaporated on my tongue.

“Panties on or off?” Both his hands slid to the outside of my thighs then paused, fingertips drumming on the hem.

When I lifted my hips, he slid my thong down my thighs. I expected him to drop my panties on the floor, or maybe toss them over his shoulder … but he shoved them into his pocket.

My heart stuttered at why he’d want my panties. What he’d do with them.

The thought soured as I considered that maybe he had a whole drawer of stolen panties from all of his conquests.

“What’s that face about?” he asked.

“Those are La Perla. They’re handmade in Italy.”

“You keep trying to tip me. Fuck Venmo, this is what I want from you.”

Ignoring the rush of arousal between my legs, I doubled down. “They’re part of a matching set.”

“Are they, now?” He slid a hand over my dress, sliding the dress sleeve down my shoulder to reveal my plum balconette bra.

“Good investment, this bra is sexy as hell.” His fingertips traced the thin cup and my nipple stiffened. His voice was ragged as he pinched my nipple through the lace. “Do you like that?”

“Yes,” I panted, breath quickening while his other hand slid back under my skirt and moved slowly, so fucking slowly, towards the apex of my thighs. He arrived at my center, slipped a finger under the fabric …and stopped. I almost screamed. “You’re enjoying torturing me, aren’t you?”

“So, so much,” he purred. The look in his eye — half predatory, half playful — had me more aroused than I’d ever been in my life. With his eyes still locked on my face, he used a single finger to part my folds and press inside.

Fuck, he knew exactly what he was doing, deploying just the tip of one finger and igniting me everywhere. His movement was gentle and curious, without pistoning or pumping, just slow caressing. I shifted my hips under his touch, arching my breast into his hand, wanting the release I knew he could give me.

“Tell me what you want, Victoria.” His voice was smoky as his finger dipped deeper.

“You know what I want.”

“I need to hear you say it.”

“I want you to make me come."

His tongue darted out to wet that full lip.

“Good girl, using your words,” he said, running the pad of his finger slowly up my front wall, my hips bucking and inner muscles already starting to clench. “Anything else you want?”

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