Page 79 of The Beauty Who Loved Him

“Three minutes. Maybe four.”

He whistled low.

Pleased.

Vera would be a liar if she said that sound didn’t aide in the sudden gush of heat between her thighs when she rubbed them together.

“I need at least three, then,” he said, “hand—or hands—in the panties. They better smell like you, Vera. Soft like petals and wet. Fold the panties under the bra and stockings, tie the bow pretty and neat, and take it to one of those nice women at the front who I know have been helping you all day. They’ll be all too happy to take the box with the red set and drive it out to my estate for the price I will pay. Don’t worry, they already know that price is whatever they ask. They won’t open the box, and neither will Mira when they deliver it to her at the end of the driveway.”

Vera rubbed her lips together as the side of her hand stroked back and forth on the armrest of the chair. “Just you?”

“I promise. And we won’t talk about what I’ll use them for tonight, either. I’ll have it all dry-cleaned. Don’t worry.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you love it,” he returned. “Stop pretending like the little slut inside of you isn’t weeping right now. The only thing you’re missing is me there to do it for you. How wet are you?”

Of course, he asked that then. As she slipped her fingers under the waistband of her panties; like he somehow knew when her fingertips glided over her clit and between her slick slit. Had he heard her readjust on the chair when she uncrossed her legs and opened them wide?

“What do you see?” Vaslav asked.

“I’m wet all the way through the gusset and lace.”

He groaned thickly.

She used two fingers at first, working them in with wet, soppy sounds that she didn’t know if he could hear. Her breaths hitched with every roll of her wrist to get her fingers deeper. She should be ashamed of the wet spot she was going to leave on the chair but at least the leather would allow her to easily wipe it away.

“Talk to me,” he said, hoarser than ever.

“Three f-fingers, now,” she whispered.

“They’re not like mine, are they?”

“No.”

Not calloused, or long. She found flex and give in her fingers and hand that his did not provide; he took with no forgiveness.

“But you’ll still um,” he told her, almost soothing.

“For you.”

Voice crackling.

Body trembling.

Her back stayed turned to a door she couldn’t even remember if she had locked, but it didn’t matter to Vera. Not then.

“I really shouldn’t send these to you,” she whimpered. “Besides, Hannah’s flying out this weekend. Saturday morning. I could be there with you—”

“Saturday afternoon. You damn well better.” Vaslav’s husky laugh helped to tether Vera over the very precious ledge keeping her from falling into her first orgasm. “And as for the panties and the rest, well, we both know exactly what you’re going to do. Was that one?”

She gasped out a yes, hips still jerking into her trembling, thrusting hand.

“Good girl,” her dangerously addictive lover praised, “now stroke your clit for two but first, tell me how you taste.”

18.

I hate the snow. I hate the snow. I hate the snow.