In theory, I should be uncomfortable with how vulnerable this makes me.
But instead I feelpowerful.
Because the way he’s looking at me right now?
Like I’m a miracle?
Like he can’t believe I’m real?
That’s intoxicating.
He releases my wrists and sits back on his heels. “Come here.”
I sit up, confused. “Where--”
But he’s already moving, positioning himself against the couch we sat on opposite ends of during our first days. His back is against it, his legs spread.
“Straddle my right leg,” he commands.
I get up, and obey. When I’m almost in position, his hands grip my love handles, guiding me the rest of the way, until I have one knee on either side of his right thigh.
The corded muscle of his thigh is hard against my bare pussy andoh godI can already feel how wet I am.
As I stared into his face, I notice his five o’clock shadow is darker today, and I wonder vaguely when he shaves. Probably when he sneaks down to that gym of his.
His cologne envelopes me, along with the raw smell that’s allhim.
“Show me.” His voice drops lower. “Show me how you’d touch yourself when you’re alone.”
My entire face goes hot. “I can’t--”
“Youcan.” He looks at me with barely restrained need. “I want to watch you pleasure yourself.”
This is mortifying.
This is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.
Both can be true simultaneously, apparently.
I start moving tentatively, rocking against his hard thigh. The friction is good but not quite enough and I’m super aware of his hungry gaze on me, and of how exposed I am.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his hands on my hips guiding the pace. “Don’t think. Just feel.”
So I do. I let my head fall back, let the embarrassment fade, let myself chase the pleasure building low in my belly.
His thigh is solid beneath me, the muscle flexing as I grind against him.
I reach down and start circling my clit.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he groans. “Soaking my leg.”
His words send a jolt straight through me. I rock harder, faster, chasing release.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.”
And I do.
My fingers move faster, circling that swollen bundle of nerves with the rhythm I’ve perfected over years of stolen moments, those late nights in my twin bed, the thin apartment walls forcing me to be quiet, biting my lip to stifle the sounds so my roommates won’t hear.
