“Wet your fingertips,” I order.
Her lips part, and it’s all I can do to keep from tracing them—with my finger or tongue.
Her eyes glitter from the ambient light, but she opens her mouth and sucks her index and middle fingers inside. My groan echoes loud between us. I give her another drink. She swallows and licks her fingertips.
I release her arm, set the bottle down, and crowd closer. “Now lift your skirt and touch yourself.”
A moment passes, and I think she’s going to refuse. Maybe she’ll shove me away and face the Baldwins with her chin held high. A small part of me will die inside. She’s been starring in too many of my fantasies for me tobe deprived of a very real experience and not end up a changed man.
Instead of pushing me away, she gathers the fabric of her dress up. My erection roars to life, growing so hard I’m damn near lightheaded. Her breaths grow shaky. She moves, and in the dark, I can only picture her slim fingers burrowing under the hem of her underwear.
A small gasp leaves her, and fuuuck.
“Are your fingers on your clit, Belle?” The nickname slips out, but I don’t take it back. My pulse hammers a beat behind my zipper. I’m hard to the point of pain, and no shower jack-off session is going to help. Only hearing her sweet release.
“Yes.” Her whisper is faint.
“Are you wet?”
“Y-yes.”
A moan rumbles in my chest, but I keep it quiet. “Is your pussy throbbing? Is it pulsing, waiting for that sweet release?”
“Yes.”
I place my hands on either side of her head. Looking down, I can only see where her hand disappears under the fabric of her skirt. She lets out the faintest of whimpers.
“Keep going,” I coax, my voice gruff. If she stops, I’ll shrivel up and die. This moment is all I’m living for.
“Durban.” Her eyelids are hooded, and she’s resting her head against the wall.
“You’re getting wetter. Fuck, I bet you’re tight too. Dip those long fingers inside of yourself.” My forehead is tipped toward hers, but we’re not touching. I cage her against the wall.
Her shadowed eyes fly up to mine, but she does it.
“Christ, Belle. How fucking wet are you?”
“So wet.” One of her legs lolls to the side, and she’s rocking her hips against herself.
“Rub that clit again. Tight little circles.”
“Durban,” she whispers. “I’m going?—”
“Do it. Come as hard and as long as you need.”
I’m millimeters away from her, my attention and focus on her. She arches her back, and her tits brush against me. The hard little points of her nipples graze my chest, and I have to clamp down on my control before I come in my pants. I can’t tend bar with a wet spot.
Her mouth gapes open, and I hover, ready to catch any sound that slips out.
“Oh my God,” she rasps quietly. “Oh my God.Yesss.”
I soak it all in, imagining just how hot and soaked she must be, how she’d squeeze around my fingers—or fuck, my dick—if I were inside her. With a final jerk, she sags against the wall. She lets her skirt drop and her arms hang. She might be spent, but I’m fighting for my life. My cock throbs, and I think of cow shit. Getting slammed into cattle panels. Stubbing my toe.
You don’t know what it’s like. College. Graduate school. Research.
That does it. Blood drains from my erection. I can concentrate on Campbell and her reaction. Her eyes are closed, but her breathing has evened out.
“You okay?” I ask softly.
