The Slider Rises

Willow kneels on the thick hotel carpet, the plug's low hum a constant pulse inside her, and David sits on the edge of the bed with the phone in his hand, thumb resting on the slider. He drags it up one notch, and she gasps, hips twitching; he waits, watches her face, then slides it higher until her thighs press tight and her fingers dig into the carpet. 'This is how I'll remind you,' he says, and he leaves it there, low and constant, as he sets the phone on the nightstand and crooks a finger at her. She crawls to him, the vibration a steady ache, and he doesn't touch her yet—just lets her feel the weight of his patience.