“Yes.”
“How wet?”
“Very... wet.”
I should be embarrassed. How was I not embarrassed?
The cloud slipped past the moon and the room was suddenly illuminated. Brighter for those few moments of darkness.
“Show me,” he said. I slipped my fingers out to show him. No idea if he could see it or not, but it hardly seemed to matter. Nothing really seemed to matter except his voice and the ache in my body. I closed my eyes and put my fingers back between my legs.
“No,” he said. “Put your fingers in your mouth.”
I blinked open my eyes, stunned at the suggestion.
“God, look at you. Still so fucking innocent after all this time. Put your fingers in your mouth. Taste yourself.”
I opened my lips, slipped my fingers inside. I was salty. Musky. Like nothing I’d ever tasted before.
“Enough,” he groaned, like he couldn’t take anymore. “Pet yourself, Poppy.”
Breathing hard, I slipped my wet fingers down my body, back between my legs.
“Remember the first time you did this?” he asked. “A girl alone in her bed?”
I nodded.
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
“What turned you on so hard you had to touch yourself?”
“Zilla’s tennis coach.”
“Tell me.”
“He was nineteen. Mom hired him, probably to fuck him when Dad wasn’t looking. He...” I brushed my clit, and power and lust surged through my body. I went back again. Again. Using my fingers against myself. “He... watched me.”
“Did he touch you?”
“No. Never.”
“Did you want him to?”
I shook my head.
“Tell me.”
“No,” I answered. “But I liked that he wanted to.”
“I want to touch you,” he said. I wanted him to touch me, too. So badly. My knees buckled, and I pushed my head back against the wall. My hips bowing.
“Why don’t you?”
“Isn’t this more fun?”
“I don’t like games.”