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"Imogen—"
"Tell me."
"Another chance to be watched."
"Where?"
"My place."
"Are you inviting someone?"
"No."
"A mirror?"
"More than a mirror."
A camera. He wants to record us.
I nearly come on the spot.
I lose my head completely. "Show me."
"Show you?"
"Lose the clothes and show me."
"Uh-uh. You're first."
A whine spills from my lips, but I don't object.
"Panties off."
I shove them to my ankles. Even though he doesn't ask for a picture, I take one.
He responds with a groan. "Baby—"
"Shirt."
He doesn't object. He shifts. Moves.
It takes a minute, but he does what I ask. He sends a photo of his shoulders, chest, stomach.
"Pants," I say.
"Uh-uh," he says. "Not until I hear you come."
Which is more selfish, accepting his offer or insisting on the photo first? I don't know. I don't care.
I know I need satisfaction.
My body responds for me.
My hand slips between my legs. "Where are we?"
"The party."
"Where?"
