Soon, I find my rhythm. I’m breathy, warm, and my heartbeat is pounding.
That’s when I slip a finger inside.
> I’m wet—but barely.
“Jesus Christ.”
I think of Waylon—of his tanned skin, his thick rippling muscles, his perfectly plump cock.
I pump two fingers in and out, concentrating on Waylon.
I get minimally wetter.
Dammit.
I remove my fingers in frustration.
I know what will turn me on—a stubborn asshole who locked me in a closet but not before giving me a panty-melting, hungry glare. One that tore through my robe and told me he knows exactly what to do with my body.
With Waylon, I had to teach him how to turn me on. I have a feeling Langston would just know. There would be no need for instructions. He’d sense what I needed; understand me more than I do myself.
I won’t let my mind think about Langston.
I can make myself come without a man’s help.
My fingers return to my pussy as I focus on my breathing. I pump in and out of myself while my thumb circles my swollen clit.
A low moan hums through my belly, bringing me closer to the beautiful explosion my body is capable of making.
Footsteps creep outside the floor, startling me.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath.
I was so close to coming.
Who am I kidding? I wasn’t anywhere close.
I remove my fingers and fumble with the robe, tying it around my waist.
I’m sure it’s just Langston returning to go to sleep, but the heaviness of the footsteps concern me. Langston can move silently if he wants. All of Enzo’s men can. Enzo taught them how to move like ninjas before they turned ten.
The fact that I can hear the creak of each step tells me he wants me to hear him.
Maybe he saw what I was doing and thought he’d interrupt? Make me sexually frustrated all night? Maybe that’s my punishment?
The footsteps stop.
I hold my breath, listening carefully for Langston in the bathroom or climbing into bed.
Will it be easier or harder to touch myself knowing he’s so near?
I guess I’m about to find out.
Clank.
I hear scratching at the door. The sound of the lock turns, followed by the door. A sliver of moonlight creeps in behind him, illuminating his outline, but hiding his face.
“Langston?” I breathe out. He’s returned to punish me, I have no doubt.