Page 21 of Bargaining with the Devil

“’Tisn’t ridiculous, making yourself feel good. The only difference tonight is we’re doing it together, like, talking about it.”

“Exactly. That’s precisely what makes it ridiculous.” Except if she was being honest with herself, this was . . . arousing the hell out of her too, to use his words.

“It’s dark in there. No one but you in the room. No one to see what you do, so do what feels best. But I hope you’ll tell me what you’re doing.”

Fine. She’d give in to the madness at least briefly. She slid the hand to the inside of her thigh. Traced a path close and closer. And told him as much.

“That’s grand then. I’ll do the same. Although first I’m taking the rest of it off now, my clothing.” Muffled sounds beyond the door—him shifting his hips up, perhaps, working his trousers off those lean hips—and then the door creaked a little, him settling against it.

Back to back, just the door between them.

“Are you doin’ the same?”

The door was locked. It was just her and the darkness in there.

And Quinn on the other side, waiting for an answer.

She gripped the hem of her night rail and stripped it off over her head. “Yes.” The cold air on her breasts immediately tightened her nipples. She coasted her palms over them, barely touching them, but even at that light pressure, her back came off the door.

“I know you’re doing something over there,” he said.

She rubbed the pads of her forefingers over the sensitized tips. “I’m touching my nipples.”

He muttered something she didn’t quite catch, no doubt obscene.

Heat surged through her. She wished she’d heard what he’d said.

“I’m picturing it a bit.” His voice had gone a little deeper. “Ready to start touching myself. Just a tease at first, letting it build up. You want to hear more about how I’m touching myself?”

“Tell me.” Yes, she wanted to hear it while she strummed back and forth across her nipples.

“There’s this place on the underside. ’Tis right where it’s most sensitive. I’m touching along that right now.” Even through the door, she heard his breath stutter. “Jaysus, but that feels good.”

An answering pang shot through her.

“’Tis better talking about it than alone. It would be better yet, watching, but that’s not what we’re doing tonight.”

Did he mean watching, as in . . .? He did. Almost, she wanted to—or wanted to find out if she had the nerve—because she wanted to see more of him than she had the other night. Almost, she wanted that not tonight to mean but another night we will.

’Tis not that I’d mind it, you touching me, he’d said. If she unlocked the door, what would he do? Almost, she wanted to find out.

But not quite enough to do it.

“I have myself in hand. Fingers wrapped around my cock, working up my length and back down. Not too fast at first. Sometimes I stop for a little while. Let it build a bit from the waiting ’til I almost can’t stand not touching myself. You want to tell me what you’re doing, or should I keep talking?”

She was still self-conscious and unsure how he’d made this . . . experience sound so reasonable. But it was undeniable, the effect his words were having on her, amplifying the pleasure cascading through her body as she ran fingertips across her skin, exploring.

And so she described for him every single thing she did until narration became a distraction from the pure sensation she craved.

“Are you wet, a mhuirnín, from wanting more than this?” Conversational, saying such things, although his voice was richer, deeper than its usual tenor. Husky. Hungry.

“Wet and I . . . ache.”

“Ah, that’s grand then. You keep at that. I’m going to talk to you some more unless you tell me otherwise.”

And he did, the speed and hand movements and grip that were bringing him ever closer.

Desire now was a deep, insistent pressure. An empty, throbbing sort of ache, and she knew exactly what would relieve that aching emptiness. It was on the other side of the door.