Page 21 of Edging Coach
But Devon had ignited something in me that refused to die. He’d piqued a curiosity I’d never felt before. Well, that wasn’t quite true; I think it was there in the back of my mind for a long time. A note of“meh, that’s it?”every time I had sex with someone, including my ex-husband. That subtle certainty that there was something more, but I couldn’t reach for it because I couldn’t articulate it.
It still didn’t have a name, but it suddenly felt less nebulous and abstract. It was written in all the now-fading marks Devon had left on me the other night, and in all the places I ached forhim to mark in the future. It thrummed beneath the heady arousal and frustration of lying here with a hard dick I couldn’t touch.
I turned my phone between my fingers. All the reasons we couldn’t do this didn’t matter. Not when Devon’s touch—hisauthority—was a siren’s call I didn’t know I’d been straining to hear for fuckingdecades.
With a mix of exhilaration and resignation, I pulled up his contact on my phone. I didn’t even bother trying to write out what I knew I should have. We were going down this rabbit hole tonight and there was no point in pretending we weren’t.
In bed.
He read the text instantly. Then the three gray dots appeared, and I couldn’t sit still. I rubbed my heel against my other calf just to let go of some nervous energy. It didn’t help—there was a very specific type of friction I needed in that moment, and it had nothing to do with my legs.
Finally, my phone pinged.
Were you a good boy?
Yes.
Good. Very good.
I bit my lip and fidgeted some more. Why did his approval do this to me? Since when did I get so keyed up that those simple words had me on the brink of coming? And since when did those three gray dots give me such an intense mix of apprehension and hunger?
I bet you’d like to come.
All the air rushed out of my lungs in a single, ragged gust. My fingers were so unsteady I barely managed to type coherently.
I would. A lot.
FaceTime me.
I blinked. Face—seriously?
Bad idea, unprofessional, against the rules, career-ending, blah, blah, blah. It was all drowned out beneath that crescendoing siren’s call.
I sent the FaceTime request.
Devon appeared on my screen, and I was once again breathless. He was lying back on his own bed, a hand behind his head while the other held the phone. I could see enough to tell he was shirtless, but I didn’t know if he had on anything else. I didn’t know if I was more turned on by the idea of him as naked as I was, or lying there in sweats or shorts or suit trousers.
What the hell are you doing to me?
“You were good, weren’t you?” he asked with a grin. “I can see it in your face—you’re frustrated as hell.”
“I am. I’m…” I pressed back against the headboard. “Jesus, Devon…”
“Mmm, I love that.”
“You love me being frustrated?”
“Mm-hmm. Especially when it’s because I told you to be this way.”
I gathered some covers in my free hand just to keep my fingers occupied with something other than relieving this tension. “Did I earn that treat?”
“Ooh, yes. Definitely.” Something wicked gleamed in his eyes. “Might not feel like a treat at first, but… we’ll get there.”
God, my whole bodysangwith frustrationbordering on fury. My coach voice lodged in my throat along with any demands to justlet me fucking come, and instead what came out was a breathless, “Please, Devon.”
His grin turned to a smile that was as wicked as his eyes. “Baby, you love this, don’t you?”
“I…” I wanted to say I hated it, because I did, but I also… fuck, this was torture, but also not, and I didn’t know how to make sense of that.
