Page 114 of At the Edge of Surrender

I nearly hit the ceiling when my phone rang in my hand. I should reject his call. Or better yet, shut down my phone. I couldn’t do this with him. It was wrong. Wrong on so many levels.

Apparently, I didn’t have the capacity to heed it.

I accepted it, every inch of me shaking as I lifted the phone to my ear. I didn’t have time to say anything before his voice was cutting over the line.

Deep and dark and mesmerizing.

“How many times? How many times did you fuck yourself with those sweet little hands thinking about me?”

“Every night since I came to this house.”

He plucked it out of me as if he wielded the power to my every secret.

I’d attempted it before but had fumbled with the awkwardness. With the scars that had built up around it and made it less than appealing.

I’d finally given up.

Given up until I’d met him.

“Do it now.” He grunted it. “Slip those fingers into your pussy and know whatever you’re feeling is only a fraction of what I’d really make you feel.”

And I swore, the man had me entranced. Entrenched. Captured and hypnotized.

Because I did.

I let my palm slide down my belly and under the covers, beneath my sleep pants and underwear.

A tiny moan got free when my fingertips glanced over my clit.

“Don’t fight it, Little Warrior. Just tonight. Let go.”

I thought we both knew it was a lie. That it would never be enough. That the mere fantasy of him was only going to drive me insane. That I was diving into a dangerous place.

Because I couldn’t stay, and I didn’t believe that he would keep me. I was sure of the life that he lived.

But none of that mattered right then.

Not when I heard him shifting in bed. Not when he released a long groan, and I became sure of what he was doing.

Visions flashed.

Of what it might really be like.

The man standing over me.

Fully bare.

Pure menace and intimidation and those gentle, caring hands.

Sensation rushed as I rubbed my fingers over my swollen nub.

“Are you touching yourself, Emery?”

“Yes,” I rasped.

“Good girl.” His voice was grit, his breaths choppy and shallow.

And still, I whispered, “Are you?”

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