“Answer the question,” he chides me.
His hand inches up my thigh, gliding over the black silk of my stocking…lace…skin.
I grip the wooden surface in front of me as he teases. It takes all my willpower not to shift on the leather beneath me, not to open my thighs further for him, not to push onto his fingers, not to moan my desperation for more.
Delicately, he strokes, opening me to him, until he finds that tiny nub, sending electricity to my core.
I blink at the man who is waiting for my answer.
“I’ll have the soup, please.”
