“No,” Isay too harshly.
She looks a little hurt and it kills me.
But I see no other way.
Annabelle strokes me expertly. We have never donethiseither. It is so erotic to see her elegant hand working my cock.
“Your hand—I like watching.”
It is true—and I hope I can allay her suspicions by avowing it.
She says nothing, just continues to stroke me. I fear that my statement has not been sufficient.
My body, however, needs no encouragement to display my enthusiasm.
A minute later, I am overcome. I spill over the top of her hand. I watch, fascinated and horrified, as the seed appears between her fingers. I feel incredibly aroused, much more so than I usually do directly after my spend, because I am watching her fingers drip with my cum.
“Here, I will—my handkerchief.”
I reach for the nightstand, but she shakes her head.
Then she raises her hand to her mouth and sucks the cum off of her fingers.
And, impossibly, nonsensically, a surge of molten weakness runs down my cock.
I shudder.
And come again.
The spend that comes from me this time is smaller, less intense. But it is distinctivelythere, spilling onto the bedsheet as I moan.
“Alfred,” Annabelle says. “Did you just?—”
“Yes,” I say brusquely, caught somewhere between disbelief and shame. “I have never seen—that was just—your hand—Annabelle.”
I am incoherent.
She climbs on top of me and kisses me. Her taste and my own is on her lips.
“Touch me,” she commands.
So I do just that. I reach between her legs and find that she is very wet. I work my fingers from her core to her clit and then back again.
“Does it please you,” I say, “to show me how utterly you vanquish me?”
She moans as I stroke her.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes,” she gasps.
Moments later she shudders in my arms.
“Dear God,” she says, returning her head to my chest. “We have something dangerous here, Mr. de Lacey.”
I agree.
If it weren’t for a full day of travel, I am sure we would not be able to calm ourselves for several hours more.
