Heat coils low in my gut. “What kind of fun?”
“Well, first I’d want you to do that thing again with your mouth. The one you figured out on accident, but then wouldn’t stop.” I grin, running the backs of my fingers up her thigh.
“Swan—”
“I know, I know. I’m healing. Doctor’s orders. Six weeks in the boot minimum.” She sighs dramatically. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not frustrated about it.”
I slide my hand back down her side, over her hip. “I could still take care of you, you know. Don’t need two working ankles for what I have in mind.”
Her breath catches. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I roll slightly so I’m facing her, my hand slipping under the hem of her sleep shirt. “Just because you’re injured doesn’t mean you don’t get to feel good.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll deal with it in the shower later.”
“Or—” She bites her lip, that look in her eyes that means she’s about to suggest something that’ll make me lose my mind. “You could deal with it right here. Right now. And I’ll watch.”
Jesus Christ.
“Swan—”
“Come on.” Her hand trails down my chest, over my stomach, stopping just above the waistband of my boxers. “I’m injured, not dead. And I really, really want to watch you.”
The image alone almost does me in. Emma, propped up in bed, watching me get myself off. Those gray eyes tracking every movement, that flush spreading across her cheeks.
I can’t say no to that look, not when it’s got me hardening just thinking about it. My hand pauses on her thigh, and I search her face for any sign she’s joking, but those eyes are dead serious, hungry in a way that mirrors the ache building in me. “All right,” I murmur. “But only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself. No straining that ankle trying to help.”
She nods eagerly, shifting the pillows behind her to get a better view, her shirt riding up just enough to tease. I push back the covers, and shove my boxers down, exposing myself in the dim light. Then I wrap my fingers around my length.
“God, you’re gorgeous,” she breathes before I’ve even started to stroke.
I pause and look up at her. “You’re the gorgeous one.”
“Shut up and touch yourself.”
I give my cock a slow stroke from base to tip. Emma’s eyes track the movement, her teeth digging into her bottom lip.
“This what you want?” I ask, voice thick.
“Exactly like that. Don’t stop.”
I don’t. I stroke myself slowly at first, building the sensation, my other hand hooked behind my head so I don’t do something stupid and haul her on top of me.
Emma watches every movement, her chest rising and falling faster now. Her gaze locks on my hand, and I pick up the pace, thumb circling the head on each upstroke, chasing that building heat. Sweat beads on my skin, the room feeling smaller, hotter, with every ragged breath she takes mirroring my own.
“Talk to me, swan,” I rasp, needing her voice to push me further. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking about how much I want to touch you,” she whispers, her fingers twitching against the sheets like she’s fighting the urge.
“You are touching me. Your eyes on me—that’s enough.”
“Is it?”
“Fuck yes.” I speed up my strokes, my hips flexing into my fist. “The way you’re looking at me right now—like you want to eat me alive?—”
“I do.”
