Page 11 of Into Pitch

I see the game now.

I’m not getting what I want if he doesn’t get exactly what he wants. Strange enough, his want doesn’t seem entirely sexual in nature—I don’t think. Hell if I actually know. I can’t imagine fingering a stranger isn’t something that skips the list of sexual acts.

“B-because I don’t let anyone else get close enough to make it so,” I choke out and he slowly begins to thrust his fingers again. They find a steady rhythm, the sound of them obscene past the breath that fogs the mirror my forehead falls against.

His grip at the back of my neck remains as he does deliriously delicious things with his fingers.

“You don’t have sex?” He probes.

I know better than not answering, not when his fingers are wickedly talented and doing terrifying unholy things inside of me. Things that would have made the nuns at the catholic school I attended as a young girl blush and call on all their saints.

“I do,” I moan and arch my spine to invite him deeper. He makes a low sound of approval and rewards me with a third finger. The stretch finally enough to start me climbing that peak I so rarely find with other partners.

“Does it not satisfy you, then?” He asks as if he can read my thoughts.

“In some ways,” I whimper.

I watch him nod in the mirror, but I can’t tell if he’s actually looking at me. All I know is I’ve officially lost the plot.

“In what way does it not?” He murmurs and removes his fingers.

My reaction is immediate, a cry ripping free from my throat in frustration of being denied.

The fuck?

That’s not part of the deal.

I answer, and I get an orgasm.

I think.

“Answer,” he orders smoothly. Clearly not bothered by the way my thighs threaten to close and my body squirms.

“There’s never a connection maybe,” I hiss beneath my tight jaw, freezing when I hear the slide of his zipper.

Oh fuck—we’re doing this, doing this.

“There isn’t a connection now,” he points out bluntly.

My throat bobs as his hand flicks over one of my shoulders, a foiled square held between two fingers. Oh, good. At least one of us operating with more than one brain cell. “Open this for me, little fox.”

Don’t have to tell me twice.

I take it from him and rip it down the center with my teeth, eagerly holding it back over my shoulder in the next breath.

It’s no different than a quicky in a club stall, I tell myself. I’ve done this a time or two and it never became a problem. Only, a part of me knows this is different. He’s crawling off inside of my head and finding a way to bury himself there amongst all my thoughts.

“No, but there’s also no risk of it either. I don’t know who you are, and there isn’t any pressure to—I don’t know… figure it out further?”

My muscles lock at the first brush of his cock against me, my entire body going rigid as he guides himself back and forth through my slick folds. “So, you believe that you can just leave here and it never have meant anything at all? That, that in itself makes it better?”

“That’s two questions,” I breathe. He taps the tip against my clit and I shudder. He’s not small, not if he can manage to reach this far forward from behind me.

“The reward will equal the answer, little fox.”

I bet it does.

“It means nothing.” I admit. “I can leave and close this night off in a little black box, never to look back. It makes it infinitely better.”