His hand slips out of the camera’s view, and the visual glitches. I imagine his hand wrapped around his cock. Stroking.
If I asked to see it, would he let me?
But that’s not what this is about, I realize as the track changes to another of my songs.
I rise from the couch and tug my shorts off, laying them on the cushion before I sit back down.
My hand goes back to my breast, the other one drifting down.
I slip it between my folds where I’m wet, and my head falls back on a silent moan.
“You like watching me?” I murmur, loving the flare of his nostrils, the rise and fall of his chest with shallow breaths.
“Almost as much as I like fucking you.”
My laugh is low. I rub two fingers over my clit, gasping in surprise at how sensitive I am already.
I stroke myself, slow at first, half tempo. Any self-consciousness ebbs little by little as my music swells in the background. My man’s ravenous expression and groans turn me on even more.
“The first time I knew you were going to be a problem was in Ibiza. You were rubbing your head because of tension headaches and planning your second set for Debajo. I’d just thrown out your meds and you were spitting venom and I kept wondering what you’d say if I laid you down on the kitchen table and ate you.”
“I would’ve said less lip, more tongue,” I tease.
His eyes flash with heat, and an emotion that makes my chest tighten.
Heat floods my skin as I dial up my strokes, my other hand slipping down my stomach to help as I arch, my head dropping back against the couch.
“Raegan, fuck.”
He’s agonized, but I’m enthralled. It’s a spell I’m weaving on myself as much as one he’s weaving on me.
It feels so good. Wild. Free.
I come on my own fingers, crying out as the shockwaves start at my core and ripple through every part of me.
Moments later, I hear his hard groan.
I shut my eyes and imagine him coming on me, spilling over my body.
When we finish, my breath coming back to normal, he asks, “How do you feel?”
I crack my eyes open, my attention cutting from his handsome face and dilated pupils to my computer and the new track that started just moment ago.
I shift forward, biting my lip as I scan the screen. “I think I’m going to open with this.”
* * *
“My ass is burning. You willingly do this?” I demand.
“Four times a week,” Annie confirms as we grab our bags and head out of the studio barre class.
“Can’t picture Tyler doing that to look good on stage.”
“He doesn’t have to. He’s done four shows a week all summer. His ass is great.”
“And you’re moving back to LA in a few weeks?”
“Yup. He doesn’t have family, and my dad’s in Dallas. We always thought we’d come back east when Tyler’s contract was up, but LA is growing on me and the winters bug him. I like the idea of raising kids in California.”