Page 85 of Boardroom Mask

I smooth my palms down my stomach and rest them on my inner thighs, framing what’s between them without touching it. “There,” I say. “Are you happy now? Or do you want more? Because I think you want more. I think you always want more. That’s your whole problem, Kir Lazarev. You’regreedy.”

I let my knees fall open another inch and trace one fingertip along the edge of the fabric where it meets my thigh.

“Lucky for you,” I murmur, “so am I.”

I press my fingers delicately against the thin cotton and drag them down in one long, slow stroke. They’re already soaked through. I can feel it, and I know the camera can see it, too, a dark, wet patch that gives away everything my mouth hasn’t said yet.

“Oh,” I breathe. “Feel that? No, you can’t, can you? That’s the whole point. You can look, but you can’t touch. Not tonight. Tonight, you just get to watch me do what you wish you were doing.”

I rub in circles, grinding the heel of my palm against myself through the damp fabric. My hips lift off the mattress to meet my own hand, no shame, no flinching. I want him to see every single thing my body does when it’s chasing what it needs.

“This is what you get for spying on me,” I lecture the blinking red dot. “You get to sit there and suffer. You get to watch me make myself feel good and know that it should be your fingers right now, but it’s not. It’s mine. All mine.”

I increase the pressure and a groan tumbles out of me. My free hand grips the sheets beside my hip, bunching the cotton in my fist. The friction through the panties is good. Really good. But it’s not enough.

“God, Kir,” I pant. “You have no idea what you do to me. Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s why you can’t stay away.”

I hook one finger under the edge of the fabric and pull it to the side, baring myself completely to the lens. I’ve never been this wet in my life. I can feel it on the insides of my thighs, slick and plentiful, and when I drag two fingers through it, the sound is downright filthy.

“Jesus,” I whisper, half to him and half to myself.

I find my clit and circle it with my middle finger, feather-light at first, barely any pressure. I could cum right away if I wanted to, but I force myself to go slow even though every nerve in my body is screaming at me to speed up and chase the finish line.

“You want me to go faster, don’t you?” I ask the camera. My chest is heaving. “Too bad. I told you: my terms. My pace.”

I keep the circles lazy and unhurried, dipping lower to gather more wetness before dragging it back up. My legs are shaking and my stomach muscles keep clenching in these involuntary little spasms. I spread my knees wider and sink two fingers inside myself, curling them forward, and the moan that rips out of me is guttural and loud.

“Fuck,” I gasp. I pump my fingers twice, then pull them out and bring them back to my clit. “Fuck, fuck,fuck.”

I keep doing that. Two strokes in, then a few circles of my clit.

Again.

More.

Better.

Closer.

One hand isn’t enough anymore. I need both. I put my left on my sensitive bundle of nerves while the middle and ring fingers on my right slide inside me, then out, then in, then out.

“Kir,” I moan. “Kir, I’m so close. Do you want to see me finish?”

I picture him in that dark office, belt open, pants shoved down, his hand wrapped around himself. I imagine him wearing the mask, though that probably isn’t true, but it just makes everything that much hotter. I picture his head tipping back against his leather chair. I picture the low, ragged sounds he makes right before he loses it, sounds I’ve heard with my own ears, pressed against his chest while he moves inside me.

I fuck myself harder. My left hand speeds up to match. The pressure builds so fast it almost scares me, this towering, teetering thing that’s about to come crashing down and obliterate me completely.

“Watch me,” I order the blinking red light. “Watch me cum for you.”

And then I do. It tears through me from my center outward, white-hot, my back arched completely off the bed, both hands working me through it as I cry out his name to an empty room.

The aftershocks roll through me for a long time. My legs twitch. I lie there with my eyes closed, both hands still between my thighs, and let my heart rate come down on its own.

When I finally open my eyes, the red light is still blinking.

I pull my fingers free, then roll onto my side facing the camera. My skin is flushed and damp, but as the sweat cools, I start to shiver. I wriggle under the covers and pull them up to my chin.

“Just a reminder,” I say to the lens. “That was for me. Not for you.”