“There’s a book of erotic stories and a vibrator on my nightstand.”
“Okay, now that’s just unfair. I need to know more. What exactly were you doing with this book of erotic stories and vibrator?”
The taxicab driver’s eyes found hers in the rearview mirror. “I think that story is going to have to wait,” she said, gesturing at the front seat.
“You could whisper.”
So she did. “I like to lie on my stomach on the bed and read. And the rule is, I can’t touch myself. Not even through my clothes.”
“Oh, God,” Mark groaned. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
She was glad he’d asked. Telling him, watching his jaw tighten and his color rise, was a total turn-on. She’d never talked like this to anyone, let alone in the back of a cab. She kept such a tight rein on how she presented herself to the world, even with people who didn’t have the power to make anything of what they knew.
“Then when I totally can’t stand it anymore, when I’m ready to explode, I tease myself with the vibrator. It’s not super strong, just a buzz, and I bring it just close enough so I can feel the vibrations, but only that close.”
His hand went—involuntarily, she thought—to the bulge in his jeans, and he pressed his palm there, which didn’t cool her ardor any. She glanced at the driver, but if he knew what was going on in the backseat of his cab, he was discreetly pretending not to. “God, that’s hot,” Mark growled.
“I make it last as long as I can. I draw it out, and I make myself watch the clock to see how long I can hold out before I come.”
He choked out an incoherent sound, and she reached for the rise of his cock under his jeans. Brushing his hand aside, she found him with the ball of her hand and ground down. She knew the driver might see, and that if the cab stopped, someone could look in. She knew that it would make a mess and that at least one of them would be out of control.
“Hav.”
She wasn’t sure whether he was imploring her to be sensible or begging her for more. She didn’t care. Touching him like this filled her with a sense of power and joy. She wanted to make him feel the way he’d made her feel in the dressing room.
He lifted his hips to her palm and she pressed back, using her thumb to find more topography, the swell of his head, the ridge of vein. He made a nearly inaudible strangled sound. Not “stop.”
She checked the mirror, but the cab driver seemed to be keeping his eyes on the road. Her free hand wandered the tightness of the muscles in Mark’s thighs and abs. She loved the way his whole body strained in toward the spot she was pleasuring, the way everything got thicker and harder. His face was tight, too, his jaw locked, his eyes now closed. He looked as if he was on the edge, and she felt an answering sensation, like she was poised, like she could follow him right over without a touch, right here in the cab. How had she gotten so plugged in to him that just watching his rising arousal could wind her up like this? It felt amazing and terrible—dangerous and unstoppable.
The cab pulled up in front of her apartment.
She swiped her credit card and they practically fell out of the backseat in their haste to get into the building.
“Ms. Hoyt,” said her doorman, with his usual polite nod.
Haven nodded back. “Gerome. On the off chance that anyone asks, you didn’t see me with anyone.”