Page 81 of When the Smoke Clears

LUKE: TOUCH YOURSELF, ISLA. THE WAY YOU WANT ME TO TOUCH YOU.

Heat pools low in my belly. My breath hitches. My fingers hover over the keyboard.

ISLA: Difficult to do that and type at the same time.

LUKE: Then just read along. Let me guide you.

I close my eyes for a second, leaning back against the smooth curve of porcelain. I shouldn’t. God, I shouldn’t. But my body is already betraying me, alive with the thrill of danger wrapped in the safety of distance. He’s not here. These are only words. Just words.

LUKE: Deal?

My thumb hovers. One tap. One dangerous yes.

ISLA: Deal.

The bubbles shift as I sink deeper into the water, the phone balanced carefully on the edge of the tub. The hum of the fridge from the kitchen drifts faintly through the house. Outside, crickets pulse in the dark.

The world feels far away, leaving only me, the steam, and Luke’s words crawling across the glowing screen.

The next message lands before my breath evens out.

LUKE: Wrap your hand around your throat. Just your fingertips. I want you to feel your own pulse. That’s mine now.

I swallow. Steam curls around my face. My fingers find the slender column of my neck and press lightly. Thud-thud. My heart answers to his words like a trained animal.

LUKE: A little pressure. Not too much. I want you to be aware of it. A reminder.

Heat licks low in my stomach. I obey, adding the barest edge of pressure. Not pain. Presence.

LUKE: Good girl. Now dip your hand. Get it wet. Take your time.

I slide my free hand into the bath. The water is lush and hot, a silk sheet I can’t stop moving under. I bring my palm up, tracing a reflective path from collarbone to breast, drops beading, rolling, catching on my skin like stars falling.

LUKE: Circle your nipple with one finger. Barely there. Tease it.

A shiver ripples across my chest as I drag the tip of my finger around and around, slow spirals that tighten with each pass. The air on wet skin is a shock—cool, then scorching. My head tips back against porcelain with a soft click.

LUKE: Pinch. Gentle at first. Then a little more. I’d take it between my teeth if I were there.

A small sound leaves me, half breath, half plea. I do as he says, a tug that wakes every nerve in my body. My thighs shift beneath the water, a restless ache blooming where the heat gathers.

LUKE: Tell me what you feel.

I stare at the blinking cursor as if it could translate my body.

ISLA: Warm. Tight. Like my skin is too small.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

LUKE: You have no idea what that does to me.

I believe him. The thought sends another ribbon of heat coiling low, a sense of power braided with surrender. It’s ridiculous and reckless, and I can’t stop.

LUKE: Now slide your hand down your stomach. Slow. Stop at the top. Wait for me.

I obey, palm drifting over my ribs, lingering where breath rises and falls, then gliding lower until I hover at the edge. Waiting turns out to be its own kind of ache.

LUKE: One finger. Just inside. Say my name in your head when you do it.