His palm traces down my neck in a straight line, running along my windpipe. He applies the slightest bit of pressure to my throat, eyebrow raising when I don’t protest or ask him to ease up. Before I can open my mouth and ask for more, he pinches my nipple between the thumb and pointer finger of his other hand, turning them half a degree. My eyes roll to the back of my head at the exquisite pain.

He dips his head, kissing the sensitive skin around the elevated peak. I whimper at his path, a woefully pathetic noise discharging from my throat. I’m incapable of anything else. “You have come in the last six years, right, Emma?” he asks into my neck, inching to my other nipple and pinching it harder than the last. I groan, the start of a tsunami forming. His attack ceases when I don’t answer, and God, I shouldn’t like that as much as I do. “I asked you a question.”

“Y-yes, I’ve come,” I sputter, body prickling with an unidentifiable heat starting at the small of my back.

“How? Fingers? Toys?”

“B-both. It hasn’t been very frequent.”

I don’t tell him it’s been half-assed sessions in the bath after work when I’m almost too tired to function, giving up after ten minutes because all I want to do is crawl into bed. I keep my mouth shut about the nights when I have energy, hand under the waistband of my shorts, reading a book and picturing myself as the protagonist getting everything I want, even if it’s something I haven’t tried before. And I certainly don’t share about the other day in his shower when he interrupted me.

Nothing has been noteworthy; it’s barely enough to accomplish the job hurriedly then go on with my life.

Henry hums in response, offering me no insight to what he might be thinking. His thumb swipes at the juncture of my waist and thigh, dangerously close to where moisture is beginning to pool. I tip my hips up, trying to meet his hand before he withdraws his touch altogether.

“Don’t move.” His stern voice has an immediate effect on me.

I freeze, obeying his demand. I haven’t shared with him what I dream about. There’s no way he can know, even if the book excerpt he saw was a glaringly obvious clue.

He’s an extremely smart man, and I wonder if he’s picked up on my subtle hints. The way my body quivers in delight at his dominance. How I melt when he uses the two words that will be my ultimate ruin—good girl—the praise stealing my breath and singeing my skin.

“Tell me, Emma, if I slide my fingers inside your pussy, how wet am I going to find you?”