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I take a pull straight from the bottle. “I already did,” I say.
“Chug some more wine; you only seem to tell me what you want when you’ve been drinking.”
“Fine.” I run my index finger along the cool wooden bed frame. “I want you to bend me over this bed here . . . and take me the way you did on that desk.” Instead of embarrassment, I only feel the warm flush of heat trailing up my neck to my cheeks.
Hardin curses under his breath; I know that he didn’t actually expect me to answer more graphically. “Then?” he asks quietly.
“Well . . .” I start, pausing to take another long swig to gain confidence. Hardin and I have never done this before. He’s sent me a few racy text messages, but this . . . this is different.
“Just say it, don’t be shy now.”
“You would hold me by the hips, the way you always do, and I’d cling to the sheets to try and keep myself stable. Your fingers would dig into me, leaving marks in their wake . . .” I clench my thighs together when I hear his breathing hitch through the line.
“Touch yourself,” he says, and I quickly look around the room, momentarily forgetting that no one can hear our private conversation.
“What? No,” I harshly whisper, cupping the phone.
“Yes.”
“I’m not doing that . . . here. They’ll hear me.” If I were talking to anyone other than Hardin in this way, I’d be completely horrified, wine or not.
“No, they won’t. Do it. You want to, I can tell.”
How can he?
Do I want to?
“Just lie back on the bed, close your eyes, spread your legs, and I’ll tell you what to do,” he says smoothly. As silken as his words are, they come through as a full-on command.
“But I—”
“Do it.” The authority in his voice makes me squirm while my mind and my hormones battle it out. I can’t deny that the idea of Hardin coaxing me through this over the phone, naming the dirty things he would do to me, raises the temperature of the room at least ten degrees.
“Okay, now that you’ve submitted,” he begins without my actually having said anything, “tell me when you are down to only your panties.”
Oh . . . But I quietly pad over to the door and turn the lock between my fingers. Kimberly and Christian’s room, as well as Smith’s, is on the upper level of the house, but as far as I know, they could still be on the first floor with me. I listen closely for movement, and when I hear a door shut above me, I feel better.
I hurry and grab the wine bottle, finishing it off. The heat inside of me has turned from a small flicker to a blazing inferno, and I try not to overthink the fact that I’m stepping out of my pants and climbing onto the bed, wearing only a thin cotton shirt and panties.
“Still with me?” Hardin asks, an evil smirk surely on his face.
“Yes, I’m . . . I’m preparing.” I can’t believe I’m really doing this.
“Stop overthinking it. You’ll thank me after.”
“Stop knowing everything that I’m thinking,” I tease, hoping that he’s right.
“You remember what I showed you, right?”
I nod, forgetting that he can’t see me.
“I’ll take nervous silence as a yes. Good. So, just press your fingers where you did last time . . .”
Chapter eighty
HARDIN
I hear Tessa gasp, and I know she’s followed my instructions. I can picture it perfectly, her lying on the bed, legs spread open. Holy fuck.
“God, I wish I was there right now, to watch you,” I groan, trying to ignore the blood rushing straight to my dick.
“You like that, don’t you—to watch me?” she gasps through the line.
“Yeah, fuck yeah, I do. And you like to be watched, I can tell.”
“I do, just like the way you like it when I pull your hair.”
Reflexively, my hand goes between my legs. Images of her writhing underneath my tongue, her fingers tugging my hair as she moans my name, fill my mind, and I press my palm against myself. Only Tessa can make me this hard this quickly.
Her moans are quiet, too quiet. She needs more encouragement.
“Faster, Tess, move your fingers in a circle, faster. Imagine I’m there, it’s me, and my fingers are circling you, making you feel so fucking good, making you come,” I say, keeping my voice down in case my annoying houseguest happens to be in the hall.
“Oh my,” she pants and moans again.
“My tongue, too, baby, swirling against your skin, my sinful lips pressed against you, sucking, biting, teasing.” I slide my gym shorts down and begin to stroke myself gently. I close my eyes and focus on her soft pants, pleas, and moans.
“Do what I’m doing—touch yourself,” she whispers, and I’m gifted with the image of her back arching off the mattress as she pleasures herself.
“Already am,” I mutter, and she whimpers. Fuck, I want to see her.
“Talk to me, again,” Tessa begs. I fucking love the way her innocence disappears in these moments . . . she always loves to hear such filthy things.
“I want to fuck you. No—I want to lay you back on the bed, and make love to you, hard and fast, so powerfully that you’re screaming my name as I thrust deeper and deeper—”
“I’m . . .” she moans low in her throat. And her breath catches.
“Come on, baby, let go. I want to hear you.” I stop speaking when I hear her come, soft whimpers and whines as she bites into the pillow, or the mattress. I have no fucking clue, but the image sends me over the edge, and I spill into my boxers with a strangled groan of her name.