Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 675(@200wpm)___ 540(@250wpm)___ 450(@300wpm)
Especially when his next response comes through.
I think I need to make sure you remember who you belong to.
A slow shiver rolls through me, even as I type out a biting message.
You’re so full of yourself.
His reply comes through immediately.
Not as full as I’d have you.
I suck in a sharp breath, my pussy clenching around nothing as my knees weaken.
Somehow, I manage to respond, though the act of typing is becoming more and more difficult.
You really have no shame, do you?
A dangerous heat licks at my spine, my fingers tingling with the urge to do something.
Not when it comes to you.
I should end this. I should put my phone down, walk out of the bathroom, go to sleep like a sane person.
But I don’t.
Instead, I exhale shakily, dragging my fingers over the waistband of my pajama shorts and pulling them down as I send a quick response.
Is that so?
Three dots flicker.
I’d prove it to you, but you’re not here.
I smirk, a little lightheaded, my heart pounding as I lift my phone and snap another photo. I capture a lower angle this time, with one hand grazing the inside of my thigh, tugging one side of my waistband down just enough to tease, but not enough to show.
It’s bold - way too bold, in fact.
Still, I hit send anyway.
His response takes longer this time. A full ten seconds.
Lower.
My stomach tightens, and I hesitate.
Then, I do it.
The next photo is even worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it. The front of me is completely bare for him to see as I pull the shorts halfway down my thighs.
I send it before I can second-guess myself, and his response is instant.
Touch yourself for me.
I move on pure instinct, my fingers trailing lower, ghosting over my inner thigh and teasing myself with the anticipation of it - of him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my phone still clutched in my other hand, my breath coming in shallow gasps as my skin ignites beneath my own touch.
I’m haunted by the memory of his hands on me, his body pressing me up against the window in his suite. I remember the way he made me fall apart with just his fingers as I brush my own over my clit, and it all rushes back to me at once, stealing the air from my lungs.
A vibration against my palm startles me, and I blink down at the screen.
Show me.
A fresh, burning wave of heat rushes through me.
I shouldn’t. I know that I really, really shouldn’t.
After all, this is insane. He’s a celebrity - what happens if his phone gets hacked somehow, if his messages get leaked, if someone else ends up in possession of it and these images get out?
But…
I bite my lip, my entire body pulsing with need, my heart slamming against my ribs as I shift slightly.
All doubt seems to fade away as I angle my phone just enough.
My fingers are still between my legs, and I take the photo.
It’s not too much. After all, I’m hardly identifiable, and you can’t really see anything.
But it’s just enough to drive him insane.
I press send, my stomach twisting with nerves and adrenaline as I continue to tease myself with the memories of him.
The response comes much faster than I expected.
Mon dieu.
You’re going to kill me, you know that?
I smirk, satisfaction thrumming through me at the thought of him seeing me like this and knowing that it’s because of him.
I remove my hand from between my legs as I respond. In all honesty, this is a little inconvenient - I’m not sure how I’ll be capable of doing anything but torturing myself while messaging him, since typing with one hand is not a skill of mine.
That would be quite the headline. “Formula 1 Driver Dies from Sheer Frustration.”
His reply has my eyes widening.
Poppy - if and when I die, it’ll be buried inside you.
A sharp, needy gasp escapes me, my thighs clenching, my entire body tightening at his words.
Another message appears.
Touch yourself for me. Properly.
I can’t think, can’t focus on anything but the aching pulse between my legs, the way my skin feels too hot, too sensitive.
My head spins as another message comes through.
I want to know how you feel when you cum for me, even when I’m not there.
I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop.
The thought of him seeing me like this - the thought of him just as frustrated, wanting and needy as I am, the thought of him being just as impacted - only makes the pleasure burn hotter, and I let out a slow, shaky breath as I press record.
I make sure that the angle is careful and teasing, removing my shirt so that my pert breasts are on show for him along with my long, blonde hair.
I trust Frederic, I do, and I know him well enough to know that his possessive nature would never allow him to share this with anyone else.