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But this—
This is crystal clear.
I make her wait a few minutes, then I reply.
Ty: Take off your knickers.
Indigo: Now?
Ty: Where are you?
She sends a picture. Another rooftop bar. More sleek than the first. Perfect for her.
Ty: Go to the bathroom. Take off your knickers. Show me.
Indigo: If it's not a single stall?
Ty: Find a private spot. You're smart. Figure it out.
Indigo: Paloma will ask questions.
Ty: Do you care?
I give her time to reply.
A few minutes.
She sends a picture. The jut of her bare hip, her jeans pulled aside, her knickers MIA.
I don't wait for her response.
I call her.
She answers on the first ring. "Ty." Her voice is breathy. Heavy.
"Where are you?"
"The bridal suite."
Fuck. So much for clearing my head. "Show me."
"Give me a minute." She pulls the phone away. Fumbles. Sends a picture of the small, white room.
It's perfect. A white vanity. A floor-to-ceiling mirror. A leather fainting chair.
Then a mirror selfie. She's still in her clothes. Except for the knickers around her finger.
"Is that enough detail, sir?" Her voice drops. Into that perfect mix of dare and obedience.
"Take off your top."
She fumbles for a moment. "Done."
"The bra."
"Paloma will—"
"Let me worry about her."
"But, sir—"
"But, what?"
"I just… know you're concerned about your reputation."
"She won't say anything."
"The rest of the staff?"
"I'll handle it," I say. "Don't ask again."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
She murmurs an agreement.
"Take off the bra and show me."
"Ty—"
"You're going to come for me now. Or you're not going to come at all."
"At all?"
"Until I decide you've earned back the right."
"Fuck." Her breath hitches. "Ty—"
"It's your choice, Indigo. Which is it? Are you going to come for me? Or are you going to disobey me?"
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ty
She teases me back.
Makes me wait.
The minute feels like an eternity. I need her. I need her groan, her bliss, her submission.
Now.
My body whines.
It's impatient.
But I've been waiting a long time for this. For her.
I have plenty of practice enduring impatience.
My phone buzzes with a picture message. Indigo, from her nose to her hips.
The sharp line of her dark hair.
The pout of her wine lips.
The silver pendant hanging between her perfect tits.
The soft curve of her chest, waist, hip.
The waistband of her jeans.
Fuck.
"Ty?" Her voice is soft. Breaking character. She's nervous.
"Yes."
"I'll have to be fast."
"You'll go as fast or slow as I tell you to."
Her breath catches.
"Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Put the phone on speaker."
"And hold it?"
"Put it on the vanity. Stand next to it. Your back against the wall."
"Yes." There's movement on her end, then the feedback that comes with speaker phone. "Done."
"How do you feel?"
"Exposed."
"What else?" I ask.
"Dirty."
"Do you like it?"
"Yes," she breathes.
"Do you like knowing someone is outside the door, wondering what you're doing?"
"Yes."
"Unbutton your jeans."
She tugs the zipper. "Done."
"Are you wet?"
"Very."
"You like teasing me."
"Yes, sir."
"Do you think you can do that without consequences?"
"No, sir."
She wants the consequences. I need to give her a chance. To disobey me and meet punishment for it.
My balls tighten at the thought of Indigo bent over my lap, gasping as I bring my hand to her arse.
As I drive my fingers into her, throw her against my desk, fuck her until she's screaming.
God dammit. I may have patience, but my body doesn't. I'm too hard. Too ready.
This is not the fucking place.
And I don't fucking care.
I lower the blinds. Press my back into the glass wall.
"Push your jeans to your thighs," I say. "Then keep them there, so they're binding you."
Her breath hitches as she does what she's told.
"Show me."
"Yes." The cell brushes the desk. Her breath gets closer. More shallow.
My phone fills with the image. Indie's reflection.
Her gorgeous blue eyes, her soft wine lips, her sweet curves on display for me, all the way to the jeans binding her thighs.
What the fuck did I do to get so lucky?
"Beautiful," I say.
Her breath flows through the speakers.
"Look at yourself in the mirror."
"Okay." Nerves slip into her voice.
The situation? Or some insecurity?
It defies explanation. How could she think she's anything less than perfect?
But I know better than to push her. Not now, when I'm unable to show her how much I want her.
"Watch your face," I say. "The way your expression changes as you get closer."
"Watch myself come?" she asks.
"Is that a problem?"
"No, sir. Just… different."
"Try. Look yourself in the eyes. Then touch yourself."
"How?"
"How do you normally fuck yourself?"
"My fingers against my clit. The index."
"Which hand?"
"My right."
I want to demand she show me, but there isn't time. And I can't pull her from the moment again. "Touch yourself."
"Like I'm alone?"
"Like I'm watching."
"Yes, sir." Her breath slows for a moment.
Then it speeds.
Grows louder.
She gets closer. Closer.
Lets out a soft moan.
Then a louder one.
"Fuck," she breathes. "Ty… I can't… I can't keep watching. It's too much."
"Try."
"But—"
"Try. Or I hang up right now." I keep my voice firm. It's what she needs right now. She needs the rules, the structure, the release from her thoughts.
"Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes, sir." Her voice fades. She's already slipping into that perfect world of pure bliss.
