“Tell me,” he warns, “or I’ll take you over my knee again.”
The thought has me squirming, and not in a bad way.
“Would you think about that night?” he presses. “Would you think about me?”
I roll my lips in, still not wanting to answer. But then I nod.
“Say it.”
“I’d think about your mouth on me,” I admit.
“Showme.”
I drift my hand up the inside of my thigh, resting my feet on the bed and spreading them. I hear his low growl when he sees me bare in front of him. I let out a small whimper the second my fingers graze my sensitive clit.
“What else did you think about?”
“How it felt to have you inside me.”
“When you thought about that, did you push one of your fingers inside yourself, and realize it’s not enough?”
I moan out a needy, “Yes.”
“Do it now,” he demands, and I do. Pushing my middle finger in and moaning at the sensation. It’s not enough. Not even close.
“Need another one, Angel?”
“Mhm.”
“Then give yourself what you need.”
I push another finger in along with the first, and thrust them gently, but I’m quickly frustrated at how it’s not enough. I start torub my palm against my clit while I try to get myself there with just my touch.
Wes watches me, his eyes honed on where my fingers are. I move my free hand up my stomach to my chest where I cup a breast, squeezing and plucking at my nipple while I try to pretend like my fingers are enough.
I moan his name in a small plea.
“What is it?” he asks tauntingly.
“I want you to touch me,” I breathe.
“Mm not yet, but you can watch me.”
I groan in frustration, watching as he pushes his sweatpants down, his cock bobbing free. He wraps his fist around it immediately, moving over it once, twice, and I swear I could come just from watching him.
“Did you see this in any of your fantasies?” he asks, voice low. “Or were you always too eager to have me touching you?”
“You were always…shit,”I cut myself off with the curse as I manage to touch a particularly sensitive spot that has my eyes crossing.
“I was always what?” he presses, voice rough. “Tell me what that mind of yours thought about while you were so desperate to feel me, but settled on touching yourself instead.”
“You were always touching me,” I manage to say, breath catching as I find a rhythm and pressure that’s making me feel the telling signs of an orgasm starting.
“Was it my mouth? My fingers? My cock?”
“All of them,” I admit. As I fall back into the fantasy remembering what it feels like when it’s a reality.
“Take your shirt off. If you’re going to play with your nipples, I want to see.”
