She glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. “Um, I don’t know what kind of relationship you have with your brother, but he won’t be running errands forever. I doubt you’re going to want him walking in on this.”

Spencer didn’t comment on the fact that she’d made a sound—several of them, in fact—but smiled and shook his head instead. “I have plenty of time. He won’t be home for another forty-five minutes. I’ll use every single one of them if I have to.”

Forty-five minutes of this? Ruby didn’t think she’d make it.

“What if he gets done picking up the dry cleaning quickly? What if he forgot something and has to come back to get it?”

“He won’t.”

The confidence with which he uttered this rivaled the confidence with which he continued his penance. Three. Four. Five. Six. Each stroke seemed to come slower than the last, as if Spencer wanted to eke this moment out as long as humanly possible.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

“That’s not how you’re supposed to do it,” she said. The whimper was back again, though she managed to keep it contained. “A real stroke is fast and hard and—”

This time, he did put up a protest. “You’re not allowed to make any sounds. And I don’t need your advice on how to get myself off, thanks. I think I’ve got the mechanics worked out by now.”

“This doesn’t count.”

“Ten,” he said and stroked.

“You’re not doing it right.”

“Eleven,” he said. “Twelve.”

It occurred to her with a start that he was doing this on purpose—presenting himself like a god, showing how much control he had. It was the same thing he did whenever getting Wheezy to do what he wanted. He made the rules. He was in charge. He was the master.

Even if it had been her hand sliding up and down his length, even if she was on top of him and had that beautiful erection inside her, he wouldn’t hurry things. He wouldn’t stop until he finished what he came to do.

He wouldn’t come until she did.

That thought—of Spencer taking his time with her, of his beautiful voice dictating what she could and couldn’t do, of her doing what she damn well pleased anyway—was Ruby’s undoing.

“Thirteen,” he said, adding a flourish to his tip this time. Showing off. “Fourteen. Fifteen. I can do this all day. Can you?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, since it was no more than the truth. This particular kind of competition had never come her way before, but she was nothing if not willing. “Let’s see what happens if I give it a go.”