Her belly undulated with laughter at the command. Her shoulders shook with it. I feasted on the sound, on the sight—each intake of breath, each exhalation. Though each bout rang high and clear, delighted, she had no business sounding so innocent. Not when her body burned as sin incarnate.

“I need more than that, Chass. Be specific.” Leaning forward, she swept her hand casually to the middle of her thigh. “Here?” When I shook my head, swallowing hard, she trailed a single finger higher. Higher still. “Or . . . here?”

“What does it feel like?” Unable to help myself, I pitched upright, swift and unsteady. My hands trembled with the need to replace hers, but I resisted. I couldn’t touch her now. I’d never stop. “Imagine it’s my hand, and tell me exactly how your skin feels.”

With a wink, she closed her eyes. “It feels . . . warm.”

“Just warm?”

“Feverish.” Her other hand drifted to her throat, her neck, as she continued to caress her thigh. Her smile faded. “I feel feverish. Hot.”

Feverish. Hot. “Your finger. Move it higher.” When she complied, sliding it between her legs, I nearly tore through the cushions. My heart beat rapidly. “What does it feel like there?”

Her breath left in a whoosh as that finger moved. Her legs trembled. I ached to grab them. To pin her to the table and finish what we’d started. But this—this wasn’t like before. This was different. This was everything. “Tell me, Lou. Tell me how hot you feel.”

“It feels”—her hips rocked in slow rhythm with her finger, and her head fell back, her spine arching—“good. It feels so good, Reid. I feel so good.”

“Be specific,” I said through gritted teeth.

When she told me what it felt like—slick and sensitive, aching and empty—I fell to my knees before her. She’d spoken of worship. I understood now. I still didn’t touch her, however, not even when she added a second finger, a third, and said on a sigh, “I wish it was you.”

I wish it was too. “Part your legs.” Her legs fell open. “Show me how you touch yourself.”

And she did.

Her thumb made delicate circles first. Then indelicate ones. More and more, her movements growing faster, graceless, as her legs tensed and spasmed. I felt each press of her thumb myself—the building pressure, the sharp ache. The need for release. I managed one breath. Two. Then—

“Stop.”

The curt word startled her, and she stilled, her chest heaving. A fine sheen of sweat glistened there. I longed to taste it. Rising on my knees, I gripped the table on either side of her. “Open your eyes.” When she did so—still panting softly—I said, “Look at me. Don’t hide. I said I want to see you.”