Page 61 of Enticing the Enforcer
His lip quirks. “You want to come to The Manor?”
I nod. “I want to know that part of your life.”
His expression flickers between surprise and something darker–want, maybe. “Can you even fit me into your schedule?”
I think on it. “It’ll take a miracle, but if I rearrange a few things, I’ve got three days off before the final shows in New York. I can come then.” I pause. “If you want me to.”
“I want you to,” he says with zero hesitation.
Relief, and something headier, sweeps through me. “I’ll talk to my team and make it happen.”
“Good.”
We’re grinning at each other again like idiots, a thousand miles apart but tethered tight. His hand rests on his firm chest, fingers tapping a restless rhythm. “Now,” he says, his voice lowering, “let me see you.”
I blink. “See me?”
His smile sharpens, equal parts sweet and wicked. “Show me what you’re wearing.”
I glance down at the oversized hoodie I threw on after my shower. “This glamorous ensemble?” I deadpan, tugging at the fabric. “Very tour chic.”
“Take it off,” he says, quiet but firm.
Heat floods me. “Bossy.”
“I know what I want.”
I hesitate, glancing toward the locked door of my suite. My skin buzzes, my pulse quickening. Slowly, deliberately, I tug the hoodie over my head and drop it on the floor. My tank clings to the bare skin underneath.
Jefferson’s jaw flexes. “Fuck, Angel.” He drags a hand down his face, then back through his damp hair. “Do you know how much I think about you like this? Laid out in your hotel bed, soft and messy, just waiting for me to get my hands on you?”
My thighs press together instinctively. “Tell me,” I whisper. “What would you do if you were here?”
“I’d start slow,” he says, his voice a gravelly promise. “Mouth on those bruises, your blisters, every sore spot from grinding it out on stage. And then I’d work my way up until you’re spread open under me, wet and desperate, begging for my cock. And I wouldn’t stop until you’re screaming my name so loud they’d hear it down the fucking hallway.”
A breath shudders out of me. “Jesus, Jefferson.”
He leans closer to the camera, eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing in his world. “Touch yourself for me, Angel. I need to see how bad you miss me.”
My hand trembles as it slips beneath the waistband of my shorts. The things this man can get me to do. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m dying for you,” he counters, his hand fumbling just below the screen. His jaw tightens when he’s got a grip on his shaft. I know that clench. I love it, it means he’s desperately trying to stay in control. “Now let me watch.”
I bite my lip, the distance between us both unbearable and intoxicating. My fingers slide lower, circling my clit the way that feels so good, the way he taught me with his tongue. His groan rattles through the speaker, dark and hungry.
“Fuck…that’s it. Nice and slow. Let me see your pussy.”
My hips lift off the mattress as I rub tighter circles. Heat sparks everywhere his words touch me. He strokes himself in time with me, broad shoulders flexing, his lips parting on ragged breaths. I want his weight, his sweat, his mouth–but right now I’ll take this, the raw need on his face, the way he looks like he’ll crawl through the screen just to get to me.
“More,” he urges, his voice low, rough. “Push those shorts down. Let me see what’s mine.”
I shove the fabric out of the way, baring myself to the phone, heart racing. His eyes darken, pupils swallowing color.
“Lick your fingers, taste yourself.” I do as he says, sliding my fingers between my lips. “Beautiful,” he growls. “Fucking perfect. I swear to God, Ingrid, you’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I doubt that,” I whisper back, slipping two fingers inside, the wet sound filling the silence between our gasps.
He shifts his own camera, giving me a view of his cock as he fists it harder, his shoulders hunching forward like he’s chasing me, chasing the sound of my moans. The words stop, both of us too deep to communicate. My body arches, shuddering as I cry out his name, the climax tearing through me, leaving me breathless.
