“That’s the instruction.”
I scoff, but my feet move anyway. He watches me pass this time, eyes slow and unreadable, and the lack of reaction feels like a challenge I didn’t agree to but fully intend to win.
I climb the stairs, pulse climbing with me, and I don’t close the bedroom door. I sit on the edge of the bed, still in my dress, heels kicked off somewhere behind me, and try to calm my breathing like I didn’t spend dinner imagining his mouth on me.
My phone buzzes.
Ethan: Go back against the headboard. Dress stays on.
I swallow and do it. The fabric rides up my thighs when I lean back, and I don’t fix it. I let my legs fall open, just enough to feel exposed, then wait.
Another vibration.
Ethan: Take off your panties. Slow. I want to know you’re listening.
Heat crawls up my neck. I slide my hand under the hem, hook my fingers into the fabric, and ease them down my legs, letting them fall to the floor.
Me: Done.
There’s a pause long enough to make me restless.
Ethan: Are your legs open?
I glance down, then widen them a little more.
Me: Yes.
Ethan: Good. Don’t touch yourself yet.
My body doesn’t appreciate that instruction, but it follows it anyway. I shift, thighs tightening, breath turning uneven, and stare at the ceiling like it might help.
Another message lights up the screen.
Ethan: I’m still downstairs.
I picture him there, jacket gone, sleeves rolled, leaning against the counter like he’s deciding how far to push me.
Me: I noticed.
Ethan: Did you? Or are you too busy thinking about how wet you are?
My cheeks burn. I don’t deny it.
Ethan: Tell me.
I hesitate.
Me: I can feel it. Every time I move.
His reply comes immediately.
Ethan: Slide your hand along your inner thigh. Stop before you reach where you want to touch.
I do it, fingers dragging slow, stopping just short, my hips lifting without permission. A quiet sound slips out of me before I can stop it.
Ethan: Hold it there.
I hold.
