Mr. Match (Mister, #5) by J.A. Huss
Published by Science Future Press on December 7, 2016
Genres: Contemporary, Romance
Buy on Amazon
Oliver Shrike thinks ahead. He likes to make lists and tick off boxes. He plans, he plots, and he’s got everything under control.
Until one day he sees my videos on his dating site. The private erotic videos I make just for him.
When I’m looking at the camera I can practically see his face. Hear the internal arguments. Feel his desire.
Because I’m that kind of woman.
You should delete my videos, Oliver Shrike. It’s your job to keep that dating site on the up and up.
But you don’t, do you?
You watch them. You get off to them. You crave them.
Every week I make a new one with you in mind. I’ve got you addicted to my body, my moans, my secrets.
I’ve hooked you now, Mr. Match. You’ve been in control for way too long and this is where it ends.
Mr. Match is the last book in the Mister Series. NOT a standalone book.
I stand in front of the tub, each of the three cameras already recording, and shrug the details off with my robe. Once the silky fabric slides over my shoulders it slips down
my body in a silent whoosh of air, and makes a soft green puddle of fabric at my feet.
I say nothing. I will say nothing. Let him guess what I’m thinking.
It’s only fair. I’ve been guessing what he’s been thinking since we parted ways four years ago.
I pose for the camera. Something I do naturally now. Taking a moment to imagine myself staring into his eyes. I forgo the pouty lips and play air-kisses and just stand there. Let him appreciate me. Let him think about all the days and nights we’ve been apart. Let him wonder what I’ve been doing.
I start fondling my breasts, pinching my nipples to make them hard and bunched. My nails are just long enough, and the steam inside the bathroom just hot enough, to leave red marks on my fair skin.
He likes that. He likes the animalistic nature of sex.
I find myself unconsciously biting my lip and stop.
I am not a weak little girl. I am not trying to seduce him, or entice him, or make him want me.
He already wants me.
None of that play-acting stuff matters with Oliver Shrike. Everything with him needs to be genuine.
One hand continues to lightly scrape the skin of my breasts, while the other tracks down my ribcage with just enough pressure to make marks. It slips easily between my legs and only then do I let myself become aroused.
My lips part as my mouth opens. My heart beats faster. My skin prickles up, even though the heat in this room leaves no room for chills.
I will not moan for him. Not on camera. If he wants more he needs to come to me.
But I do enjoy it.
When the tips of my fingers find the sweet spot I smile and rub a little faster.
Do you like that? I want to ask him. Do you enjoy looking at me? Watching me? Do you want more? Do you want to feel me again? My body, my breath on the tip of your cock?
I come. Silently. He might not even notice, that’s how quiet I am.
And then I open my eyes and smile as I step into the tub. Sink down into the frothy white bubbles and let the hot water burn me. Turn my pale skin red, make my cheeks flush, relax my muscles, and ease my worries.