“Are you wearing a bra? Panties?”
“No, and yes.”
“I want you to slide the straps over your shoulders. Let me know when you're done.”
My heart pounds, and I lift my hand. I shiver as the fabric slides against my skin.
“Done,” I whisper.
“Good, baby. Do you like to touch your breasts?”
“I—” I flex my fingers. “Yes.”
“I bet they are beautiful,” he says. “Bare them. Push the nightgown to your waist.”
My hands tremble as I do.
“Okay.”
“I want you to trace them with your finger. Start on the outside, and with every pass, get closer to your nipple,” he orders gruffly.
“Shit,” I gasp as I touch them.
“Perfect, baby.”
“Ezra.” It’s as if it’s his hand.
“Are your nipples hard?”
“Yes.” I lift my back off the bed slightly as I come closer to them.
“Lightly touch them,” he growls low. “Now drag your thumb over your nipple. Back and forth, back and forth. Do you want more?”
“Please,” I groan, the sensation zaps from my breasts down my body.
“Cup both breasts before sliding your hands to your stomach,” he demands, and I follow his directions without question or hesitation. “Talk to me, baby.”
“I did it.” I hold my hands against my waist.
“Is your nightgown loose enough to glide your hand underneath it?”
“It is.” I stare at my hands.
“Do it,” he commands, and I suck in my stomach as I follow his instructions. “Trail your finger on the edge of your panties. Do you think you are wet?”
“Yes,” I pant.
“Were you thinking of me while you touched yourself?”
“Of course.”
“How far did you get?”
“This far,” I admit.
“So, you don’t know if you are wet.”
“Fuck,” I moan.
