Page 50 of Letting Go at 40

Can I really do this with him? I can’t believe I’m considering it, but I can hear him breathing through the phone. His even breaths growing ragged. He whispers my name, and it sounds decadent, tempting even.

“You’re in bed, right?” The question isn’t seductive, but the depth of his voice is like the lap of his tongue over my prickling skin. “Lay back. Get comfortable.”

“I don’t think—”

“Don’t think. Just lay back. Close your eyes. Take a breath.” He inhales and exhales through the phone.

I almost giggle at his coaching, then I remind myself he can’t see me. This will only be in my imagination. Another secret I keep to myself.

Following his directions, I scoot lower beneath the covers and close my eyes. I inhale and exhale in rhythm with him.

One final time I question what I’m about to do.

Then I picture Mason over me. His eyes. His mouth. His fingers.

“Run your palm over a breast. Feel the weight.” He pauses, giving me a second to experiment with my own touch. “Your nipple is hard. Circle it with a fingertip. Go slow, draw out the pleasure.”

I do as he says. My nipple tightens. Heaviness pulses between my thighs. My heart gallops.

“Do the same to your other breast,” he commands, his tone growly. The ruggedness in the sound is like another long drag of his tongue over the peak of my nipple. “God, you have such amazing breasts.”

His words cause my lids to flip open and I stare up at the ceiling. Why would he say such a thing? And why am I thrilled to hear those words from him?

“Come on, sweetheart.” His encouragement comes as if he can see me hesitating. “Just listen to my voice.” He hums, as if he’s enjoying himself. “Pinch your nipple.”

I do as he asks but then drag my hand down my stomach, eager to move on with this lesson. The movement blazes a trail of desire over my belly. My legs press together and my back arches.

“Mason,” I whimper, needing more. Nearly begging for his permission to move to the next step.

His breath hitches. He groans as if excited himself. His voice deepens even more when he continues. “Draw your fingers downward. Slow.” He pauses a beat. “Slip them into your underwear.”

“I’m not wearing any,” I admit breathlessly. I put on a pair of boxer-type shorts and skipped the underwear tonight.

“Fuck,” he grinds into my ear, his voice desperate. “Touch yourself, baby.” He hisses as if he can see me. As if he knows what I’m doing, and where and how. “Circle that sensitive spot. Feel the pleasure build.”

For a few seconds, he doesn’t speak as I do as he says, circling my clit and rubbing the swollen nub with my fingertips. Needily, I moan.

“Tell me how it feels.” His voice drops, the command rough. The combination moves over my skin like a coarse fingertip.

As I’ve already thrown caution to the wind, I whisper, “I’m so wet.”

Mason growls. “Imagine I’m touching you. My fingers want to fuck you.” Strain fills his throat. “Fuck, Anna.”

“Are you touching yourself?” The curious question bursts from me. Is he turned on by telling me what to do? I picture him holding himself, thick and long in his palm.

“Do you want me to be?” The breathlessness in his voice tells me all I need to know.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” I whisper. With my eyes closed, my imagination is in overdrive. My clit pulses as my fingers stroke. My libido is singing, hungry for the release.

“I’m cupping my cock and it’s so fucking hard. Hard for you, sweetheart. You’re kissing it, licking the length. And that mouth.” His voice catches.

“My mouth what?” I preen, eager to know what he sees me doing to him.

“Focus, sweetheart. This is for you.” He pauses. “Or does it help to think about my dick? Think about the tip at your entrance, swiping up and down against your clit?”

Yep, the thought of him teasing me, spreading me has my fingers rubbing faster. My legs spreading wider.

“You’re ready, aren’t you, baby? I could slip right into you, and you’d fucking come.”