Page 84 of Boardroom Mask

And I’m letting him.

For five years, the question of what I want and what I allow has been this impossible tangle, balled up so tight I couldn’t find either end. But right now, alone in my own room on my own bed, I’m the only variable in the equation. It’s just me and a blinking red light.

The trembling in my fingers quiets down. The nervousness fades. A wild, laughing, seductive confidence takes its place.

I’m not nervous anymore. I’mdecided.

I pull the NYU shirt over my head in one motion and drop it on the floor beside the bed, but I cup one hand across my braless breasts to hide them from the camera’s view. The air hits my bare skin and I shiver, but it’s not from cold.

“You’re watching, aren’t you?” I whisper coyly. “You’re sitting in your office with the lights off, all alone. I bet it’s killing you that you’re so far from me, isn’t it?”

The red light blinks.

“And,” I say with a nibble at my bottom lip, “I bet you’re frothing at the mouth, practicallybeggingfor me to move my hand so you can see more of me. Aren’t you, Mr. Lazarev?”

I slide my hand down an inch. Just one teasing little inch, enough to let the curve of my breasts peek over the tops of my fingers. Then I stop.

“Hmm. No, not yet, I don’t think. You haven’t earned that yet.”

I bring my hand back up and cover myself fully again, pressing my palm flat against my chest. I can feel my own heartbeat thumping against my palm. I tell the camera, “You’ve been watching me without my permission for days. So now, you watch onmyterms. And my terms say you wait.”

I arch my head to the left and let my hair fall over one shoulder, exposing the other side of my neck, where Kir bit down hard enough to leave a bruise that I’ve been covering with turtlenecks and concealer all week. I turn so the lens can see it.

“You left this,” I scold lightly, brushing my fingertips over the fading mark. “I had to wear a scarf to work, you animal.”

I trail those same fingertips down the side of my neck, across my collarbone, and along the top of my other hand where it’s still covering my chest. I trace lazy circles on my own skin, taking my sweet time, going nowhere in particular.

“I wonder what you’re doing right now.” My voice sounds alien to my own ears. Breathy, sultry. It’s the voice of the woman I’ve pretended to be at work for five years now. “Are you sitting back? Or are you already reaching for your belt because you just can’t take it anymore? I hope you’re suffering. I bet you are.”

I spread my fingers apart, just enough to let the camera catch glimpses of skin between them. Not enough to see anything real. Merely shadows and suggestions. I bite my lip again and grin.

Then I change position on the mattress, uncrossing my legs and stretching them out in front of me. The cotton shorts ride up on my thighs. I leave them where they are and lean back on one elbow, still holding my other hand across my breasts, still shielding them from view.

“You told me I liked being on display,” I murmur. “That I liked being watched. You were so sure of yourself. So smug about it.” I run my tongue across my bottom lip. “And you know something? I’m starting to think you’re right.”

I let my hand fall away.

Not fast. Not fast by any means. I peel it away one finger at a time. Pinky first, then ring, then middle, watching the camera the whole time. By the time my index finger lifts free to reveal my taut nipple, my chest is fully bare and the cool apartment air prickles across every inch of skin.

I cup both breasts in my hands and squeeze, thumbs brushing across my nipples until they’re hard enough to ache. A moan slips out of me and I make no effort to suck it back in.

“God, that feels good,” I breathe, letting my head tip back. “This must be hard for you, huh?” My hands keep working, kneading, pinching, pulling until my hips start to rock on the mattress all on their own. “It’s gotta be killing you that these aren’tyourhands. These are mine.” I pinch both nipples at once and whimper. “How does that feel, Kir?”

Playfully, I let my gaze drift down my body, lower, lower, until I see my bunched-up cotton shorts. When I do, I let my eyes widen as if I’m just now noticing them. “Oh!Oh.I see. There’s so muchmorethat’s killing you. I bet you want these gone, don’t you? You want to see all of me? Don’t you, Kir? Don’t you?”

I flatten my hands down my body, over my ribs and hips, until I hook my thumbs into the waistband and lift my hips off the mattress. Slowly, so, so slowly, I start to peel the cotton down one side first, baring the jut of my hip bone, then the other. But just when I have begun to expose the edge of my seamless nude panties, I stop and frown.

“Although, maybe not,” I muse out loud. “You haven’t been very good, have you, what with all the spying on me? Maybe you don’t deserve this much of a show.”

I can practically hear him groaning from halfway across the city.

“But I am so turned-on right now at the thought of how sad you must look. It’s not nice, is it, when someone else is in charge of things? Does it hurt to have to go at my pace? Are you hard, Kir? Are you leaking for me?”

I picture him in his darkened office, belt undone, zipper shoved down, his aching cock clenched in his fist as he bites the inside of his cheek while the torture consumes him, the same way this depraved heat is consuming me.

I sigh sympathetically. “I suppose I can take pity on you. I know how it feels to be at someone else’s mercy. Patience, though,” I whisper, winking at the lens. “You don’t get to rush this part.”

I resume the striptease, dragging my shorts lower, past my knees, down my shins. They dangle off one ankle for a second before I flick them onto the floor alongside the shirt.