His fingers glide back and forth against the top of my thigh, then dip between. “So soft.”
“It’s my turn.”
“Your turn for what?”
“To watch you,” I whisper, as surprised by my own words as he looks.
“Here?”
His voice is strangled restraint, trying to quiet his surprise.
Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s because I spent half the night with my fingers between my thighs, but I don’t want to think about all of the reasons why this is a bad idea. Iwant to be wild and reckless and take what I want. “Yes.”
He captures his bottom lip between his teeth, and his shoulder shifts, drawing my eyes down to his belt buckle. The sound of his zipper dragging down is magnified, as if there’s a microphone right in front of it, so clear and defined; even with my heart beating so hard, I can hear it in my ears.
He peels his pants open, hooks his fingers into his briefs, and tugs them down slowly, revealing his cock head and shaft.
A rush of warmth envelops me, likeI’ve slipped into a lukewarm bath, the water filled with oil, indulgent and silky as it ripples over my skin.
His briefs stretch across his thighs, leaving him completely exposed to me.
My eyes drink him in, the long, thick line of his shaft, smooth in some places and veiny in others. My breathing picks up, and my heart beats so hard every other sound is muffled. It’s the first time I’ve seen a penis in person.
My virgin heart does a giddy happy dance.
His gaze is dark, intoxicating, and fulfilling every fantasy I’ve ever read, impersonating every love interest I’ve read about or sketched.
He leans back against the wall of the changing room, curls his fist around his length, and slowly strokes it up and down.
“Sit down,” he orders, his whispered voice gruff and demanding.
I drop onto the small bench. The cool wood on the backs of my thighs is a temporary relief to the lust boiling beneath my skin.
He steps in front of me, his shins touching my knees. His cock is so close to my face it’s better than any high-definition porn video I’ve seen. He’s so close I can smell him—earthy and salty.
He’s close enough to taste if I’m brave.
He cups the back of my head. Excitement flutters in my belly. Is he going to tell me to open my mouth?
No.
He stays silent as his fingers slide through my hair, then grip it in his fist and tug until I’m looking up at him.
He towers over me, looking like the hero out of a romance novel or an idealized ancient Greek marble statue.
“Do you like what you see?”
I nod.
He loosens his grip, sliding his hand down and guiding my hair forward until it’s brushing the tip of his cock.
He lets out a soft hiss.
I clench my thighs together and watch as he wraps the ends of my hair around his tip.
He watches my hair slide around his cock with each pump.
I don’t care that we are in a changing room in a store with photographers stalking the streets to get a pic of Owen, because for the first time in a long time, I feel safe.
