Page 163 of Enemies

The music pulses in the background like a dark metronome.

Awareness heats my blood, has my body taking notice.

“Set your phone down. Somewhere I can watch you.”

A breath trembles out from between my lips. But I do it, glad to not have to make a decision for once today.

When the phone is propped against my computer, I lift a brow. “Anything else?”

His gaze takes me in, my pajama shorts and tank top, my messy hair around my shoulders.

“Lose the shirt.”

I hesitate a beat before stripping it off.

I’m half a dozen feet from the window but on a high floor. It’s unlikely anyone can see in, but I feel exposed anyway.

I’ve been naked in front of Harrison plenty of times, but this feels different. When his breath goes shallow, his gaze lingering on my lips, my shoulders, the curve of my breasts, the hard points of my nipples, I shiver.

“You’re stunning, Raegan. If you knew half of what you did to me...”

A wave of light-headedness washes over me at the desire in his voice.

“Touch yourself. Let me see it.”

My heart thuds in my chest, skipping at his request. It’s a challenge, but more than that, it’s a plea.

When I skim a hand up my stomach, over my breast, he exhales tightly.

I like that I have this much power over him.

That high urges me on. I pinch my nipple and squeeze the mound of flesh surrounding it, rewarded once by the sensations flooding through me and again by Harrison’s groan.

“Fuck. You do this to them too, you know. You can’t see it from the stage, but they want how you make them feel. More than that, they want who you are.”

They want Little Queen, I correct in my mind. But it’s hard to think with what we’re doing. What I’m doing.

His hand slips out of the camera’s view, and the visual glitches. I imagine his hand wrapped around his cock. Stroking.

If I asked to see it, would he let me?

But that’s not what this is about, I realize as the track changes to another of my songs.

I rise from the couch and tug my shorts off, laying them on the cushion before I sit back down.

My hand goes back to my breast, the other one drifting down.

I slip it between my folds where I’m wet, and my head falls back on a silent moan.

“You like watching me?” I murmur, loving the flare of his nostrils, the rise and fall of his chest with shallow breaths.

“Almost as much as I like fucking you.”

My laugh is low. I rub two fingers over my clit, gasping in surprise at how sensitive I am already.

I stroke myself, slow at first, half tempo. Any self-consciousness ebbs little by little as my music swells in the background. My man’s ravenous expression and groans turn me on even more.

“The first time I knew you were going to be a problem was in Ibiza. You were rubbing your head because of tension headaches and planning your second set for Debajo. I’d just thrown out your meds and you were spitting venom and I kept wondering what you’d say if I laid you down on the kitchen table and ate you.”

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