My Not-Yet Mate and the Thirty-Day Trial novel · Chapter 15 of 24

Chapter 15: The Toy

I asked him on Friday, in my own bedroom, with the door shut and the lamp on.

He sat on the edge of the iron bed in his boxers, and I sat cross-legged on the quilt in his henley.

"Anything," I said. "That's what you told me."

"I did."

"Then here's mine. What do you want that you haven't asked me for?"

He looked at his hands.

He rubbed his thumb along the old white scar across his knuckles, which is what he does instead of fidgeting.

"You decide everything," he said at last. "Every time. I like it. Don't take that wrong."

"I'm not."

"But there's one thing I've wanted since the first night in your kitchen."

"I never said it."

"Say it."

His ears had gone red.

"I want to watch you make yourself come."

The room got very quiet.

I felt the words land low in my belly, warm and slow.

I had thought of five or six things he might say.

That was not one of them, and it was exactly right.

"Okay," I said.

"Okay?"

"Yes. And I'm going to tell you what I want, too, because I'm tired of working it out for you."

His breath caught.

"I want you in that chair," I said. "The one by the window."

"I want you to sit with your hands on the arms and watch."

"Yes."

"I do not want you to touch me until I say."

"Understood."

"And when I say, I want you to take it away from me and fuck me with it still going."

He closed his eyes.

"Laney."

"I want it. I want you to do that."

I said it again, slower, and the second time it was easier.

It was the first time in my life I had asked a man for something in plain words and not been embarrassed afterward.

I pulled the henley over my head and dropped it on the floor.

Then I leaned over, opened the nightstand drawer, and took out the small purple vibrator that lives in a wool sock at the back.

I had bought it two years ago, the winter I came home, on a night when the farmhouse was very quiet.

Joss stared at the sock.

"You keep it in a sock."

"The sock is from my grandfather. Go sit down."

He laughed, one breathless gust, and crossed to the old armchair by the window.

He lowered himself into it and put his big hands on the worn arms.

The chair is a small thing, and he looked like a bear in a doll's seat.

I took off my underwear.

I tossed it at him, and it landed on his knee, and he did not move a finger.

I lay back against the pillows with the lamp on his side of the bed shining on my skin, and I opened my legs wide.

"Look," I said.

"I am looking."

"Closer. With your eyes."

"Laney, I see everything."

I started with my hands.

I ran them up my ribs and over my small breasts and rolled my nipples between my thumbs and fingers.

My breath hitched.

Across the room, in the chair, I heard the wood creak as his grip tightened.

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