I let my knees fall open another inch and trace one fingertip along the edge of the fabric where it meets my thigh.
“Lucky for you,” I murmur, “so am I.”
I press my fingers delicately against the thin cotton and drag them down in one long, slow stroke. They’re already soaked through. I can feel it, and I know the camera can see it, too, a dark, wet patch that gives away everything my mouth hasn’t said yet.
“Oh,” I breathe. “Feel that? No, you can’t, can you? That’s the whole point. You can look, but you can’t touch. Not tonight. Tonight, you just get to watch me do what you wish you were doing.”
I rub in circles, grinding the heel of my palm against myself through the damp fabric. My hips lift off the mattress to meet my own hand, no shame, no flinching. I want him to see every single
