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“I wouldn’t.”
“Ah, but I think you would,” they say, their voice dropping a few notes lower.
“I hate you even more for making me feel like this when I haven’t figured out how to fix it yet.”
“Fix it?”
“You know.” I roll my eyes away. “Reach a climax.”
“I’ve seen you crack ancient symbols and string together lost words and meanings. I think you’ll get it eventually.” They chuckle softly, and it only agitates me further.
I reflect their energy. “Show me?”
Their tongue clicks away from the roof of their mouth. “That could be dangerous.”
“If you’re going to sense when it happens, I’d rather you be the one to teach me.”
They make a low noise. “Show me how you do it yourself, then.”
“Show you?” My cheeks must be the deepest shade of rose by now.
Another soft chortle from them. “Why so shy all of a sudden?”
I peel my nightgown off over my head and slide my flimsy undergarments down, stepping out of them. That puts an end to their laughing.
They hold my gaze and breathe, “You truly are the most beautiful woman in the realm.”
It’s not the first time I’ve heard that sentiment, but it sounds different coming from them. When their eyes wander to my taut breasts and the inward curve of my waist that rounds out into my hips, I know they’re seeing me.
I’ve spent twenty years stripped down to the most vulnerable part of myself with them. There’s no fear in standing naked before them.
“You’re quite radiant yourself. Perhaps you should join me?” I quirk an eyebrow. “You can’t be comfortable in all that.”
Their fingers move to the buttons on their brown underbust vest. Yes, I want them to take it off and throw their cream shirt on the ground, so I can see what’s beneath it again.
“Hmm.” They reach past me to pluck a scarf from the dresser instead. “Nice try, but I can teach you just fine like this. Now show me how you touch yourself.”
I run my fingers down my neck, a tinge of self-consciousness setting in as I cup my own breasts. It’s not embarrassment, but I’m fully aware of how intently they’re watching me.
I kind of like it.
My nipples tighten as I part my fingers, letting them peek through. The hum of approval they give me is gratifying.
“Pinch them.”
Blushing, I roll them between my thumb and index fingers. It makes my pulse drop to a steady beat. “Like this?”
“Yes.”
“Or like this?” I circle them lightly, working them into mauve peaks.
“Just perfect.”
Now that I’m ready, I slide my hand over my mound.
“Not yet,” they say, shaking out the scarf.
“Why not?’
