Sensations that have never been there before surge like a fever. I feel so damn hot and needy. For my teacher.
It’s wrong. Being here is wrong. Sliding my hand over my pussy feels wrong, too, but I do it anyway, stroking the way he stroked, dipping and circling exactly how he did it. My fingers are his fingers, caressing, giving, and building that wonderful energy inside me.
Soon, my body takes over, my hand moving the way I want it to move, coaxing shivers across my skin and producing an unimaginable amount of wet heat beneath my touch.
My legs fall open, and my head tips back, my neck stretching as I rub my clit and sink two fingers inside, out and up, down and back in.
He’s right behind that door, lathering soap along his shaft, stroking it, caring for it. God bless it, I want to do that. I bet his nude body is a legendary sight to behold.
The pressure inside me snaps, cutting my air as pleasure rolls over me in warm electric waves. I shudder and jerk, gasping with throaty groans. Holy hell, maybe I can do that again. After I catch my breath. How many of those can I have back-to-back?
I glide my fingers into my slick opening. Maybe just one more before he—
It’s too quiet. Is the shower off?
The bathroom door swings open, and he steps out in a fog of steam.
I yank my hand away and shove the shirt down.
He grips the towel at his waist as his arctic eyes lock on mine.
Neither of us breathes. Or moves.
He knows.
“You touched yourself.”
My face heats to nuclear levels.
He clutches the door frame, squeezing so hard the wood creaks. His eyes cloud with pain, harden with resolve, then he jerks backward and slams the door between us.
I groan, embarrassed beyond belief.
A thump hits the wood on the other side. The lock clicks, followed by the sound of the shower turning back on.
What the hell just happened? What should I do? As soon as he comes out, I’ll have to face him.
Dammit, I refuse to be ashamed about this.
Darting across the room, I knock on the door. “Emeric?”
“Five minutes!” His muffled shout sounds too close to be in the shower.
“Are you mad?”
“No, Ivory,” he grunts.
“Then what?”
He makes a deep growly noise. “Fuck, you’re killing me here.”
I back away from the door and sit on the bed. He hasn’t tried to have sex with me, but all his kissing and touching and staring tells me he wants to. Given my unsavory sex life, I can guess why he won’t.
One thing I can depend on, though, is his directness. So rather than making myself sick over assumptions, I wander toward the lunacy that’s in his closet.
Clothes and shoes line a wall that’s three times longer than my height. The quality of the fabrics and seams is unlike anything I’ve ever touched. I open the built-in drawers along the side and find heaps of lace, satin, and oh my God, leather lingerie. The tags have been removed, but everything looks new and exactly my size. I mold the cups of a red lacy bra around my boobs. Perfect fit. How the hell does he know my bra size?
Five minutes later, the bathroom door opens. I slip out of the closet, still wearing his t-shirt, and return to the bed to sit on the edge.
His black hair is partially dry, and the earlier tension in his muscles is gone. My attention falls to the bulge beneath his towel. It’s not tenting. I bet he touched himself, but why behind a closed door with the shower running? Emeric Marceaux does not get embarrassed.
He sits beside me on the bed, drops his bruised hand in my lap, and loops our fingers together. “To clarify my earlier reaction… I do not, in any way, object to you masturbating.”
Just hearing him say that naughty word sparks a firestorm inside me. “That’s good, because I’m definitely doing it again.” I lift a daring brow. “Whether you approve or not.”
“Killing me,” he mutters beneath his breath.
“Why?” Why not just touch me instead?
He pulls our laced hands between his spread knees and braces our elbows on the towel covering his thighs. “I love that you want to pleasure yourself.” He slides me a sexy grin. “I love it a little too much.”
“I hear a but coming.”
“But…” He flashes me another heart-racing smile. “I won’t show you how much I really love it until you’re ready.”
“You won’t show me your erection, you mean?”
He closes his eyes. “I’m not a gentle lover, Ivory.” He looks up, and his gaze lands on my lips. “I’m confident that, with time, you’ll discover you don’t want gentle. Until then, I’ll wait.”
“Behind a locked door?”
He nods.
I nibble my lip. “With an erection?”
The corner of his mouth bounces.
I glance at the outline of his cock beneath the towel. “You made yourself come?”