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But still, if there’s a chance… I want to take it.
Me: Yes.
Vincenzo: Are you wet?
Me: Yes.
Vincenzo: Show me.
My cheeks burn. He wants me to send him a picture of my—
He can’t be serious. But Enzo doesn’t joke.
How do I do this? I’ve never taken a picture of that before.
Vincenzo: I’m waiting.
Shit. I maneuver myself on the bed, move my panties aside, and snap a photo. When I look at it, it’s blurry and you can’t tell what it is. I move and try again. Still crappy. Damnit. Why is this so hard? It’s so easy for guys to send dick pics. It’s right there, sticking up for all to see. They don’t have to get between their legs and worry about lighting and shadows and lips and—oh my god, is that a hair?
I can’t send him pictures of this. It’s awful. Gross. He’ll never want to touch my vagina again.
Which I guess is a bad thing, since now I want him to.
The sudden realization doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would.
Whatever.
Vincenzo: You have exactly one minute left to send me a photo.
I stare at the text, and not one part of me wants to send it now. Because there is an inferred or else after and I really want to know what the or else is. So instead of attempting another photo, I lay back and stare at the time on my phone.
My door bursts open, and in walks Vincenzo. I force my smile away, not wanting him to know he fell into my trap this time.
My thighs clench together.
He moves to the side of my bed and looks down at me, chuckling.
“Angel, did you think I was coming in here to fuck you?” He tsks, leans down, and runs his hand over my hair. “I came in here to tell you you’re being punished for not listening—for not following the rules.”
“Punished?” I question. My heart picks up speed, the ache between my legs growing. “But I thought…”
“Hm, you thought wrong.” He stands up. “You won’t be rewarded for this sort of behavior.”
I swallow hard. “Punished how?” I ask, glancing at my phone.
He chuckles again.
“Orgasm denial,” he says slowly.
What the hell does that mean?
The bulge in his pants is thick, and my mouth waters thinking about it.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I so desperate?
“Meaning you will not come until I say you can.” He won’t know what the hell I’m doing when he isn’t around. “And I know what you’re thinking. You’ll do it yourself when I’m not around, right? When you’re in your room or the shower or when I’m not here? That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? Well, angel, you won’t do that either. Want to know why?”
“Why?” I ask, even though I did not give myself permission to say that! But he’s talking to me in the same tone he talked to me in the club. It’s like witchcraft. I do whatever he says when he talks to me like that, and I don’t like it.
