"The apartment gets cold at night and silk helps. Holds the warmth against my skin like hands." His voice drops lower. "I think about whose hands I'd want there instead. Big hands. Steady ones. The kind that shake a little when they're nervous, like they're afraid of touching something they want too badly."
"My hands," I whisper at the screen. "Those are my hands, Doll. You're talking about my hands."
He tells the camera about a painting, abstract, dark strokes dissolving into something softer, and his fingers trace the lace down to where it meets the high waistband. "I think it might be about someone I haven't touched yet."
"I think about the difference between being watched and being studied," he says, and my hands are shaking against the desk. "Most people watch because they want to take something. But there's someone who studies me, who pays the kind of attention most people don't have the patience for, and it feels different. Like being seen instead of being consumed."
"I see you." The words come out broken. "I see you, Doll. I always see you."
"Did you see anything today that made your hands shake, Alpha? Because I've been thinking about shaking hands all week. Hands that want to touch but won't because nobody told them they could."
My hands are trembling against the desk, the same hands that couldn't hold the camera steady this morning, and the ache in my chest has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with the fact that this Omega is describing me, perfectly, precisely, without ever having spoken to me.
"I'd tell them. If those hands were here I'd put them exactly where I wanted them, hold them there until they stopped shaking, and say good, just like that. I think the person attached to those hands would come apart if he heard that. I think he's been waiting his whole life for someone to say it."
"I would." I press my forehead against the desk. "I would come apart, Doll. I'm coming apart right now."
"I want to know what your voice sounds like up close, Alpha. Not through a screen. I want to hear what you sound like when someone tells you you're allowed to want what you want."
The video ends and the screen goes dark. Panic surges through me at the idea that his voice will disappear as I hurriedly press replay. It plays all the way through but I don’t let it end. My hands stop shaking around the fourth replay because his voice has done what it always does, replaced every input in my brainwith a single clear signal, and the quiet is so total that I close my eyes and just listen.
"Sweet Doll," I breathe into the dark. "What are you doing to me?"
