On one hand...I could invite him in. Just the thought of him seeing me like this again sends a wave of want through me, a brief flare of need that I can’t keep going alone.
On the other, avoiding literally masturbating in front of him might be the one scrap of privacy I have left.
Is that worth the gnawing need that will only grow if I can’t finish it off now?
I free a hand from my endless stroking and twist the lock. The door slides open immediately just on its own weight, revealing how he takes up the entire frame.
“I need help, um,” I stammer, a glimmer of reality catching my eyes. I don’t have something planned to say to him, and yet the words, “please help me get off” aren’t about to happen either.
Thankfully, he doesn’t need the whole plea, just the one word.
Vladyr slips inside, in a movement that shows just how aware he is of the space he takes up. He tucks himself and his entire wingspan into the other side of the phone closet. Gratitude blooms in me that he doesn’t make me struggle through asking coherently.
Just his gaze makes me unravel. It feels dirty and forbidden and everything I want.
I hold his stare a little too long while my cheeks heat, one degree at a time. It’s not just some wild fantasy now, my coworker is taking up most of the square footage of an already rather small room.
I can see in his eyes the look of hesitation, looking for confirmation that I want his help.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I tell him weakly, a confession that I never thought would escape me. I don’t want to whimper in front of anyone like this, but I have no choice. “I can’t finish.”
“I’ll take care of this,” he says, voice soft and firm, and Evil Overlord help me, I believe him. I lean back against the wall and am all too willing to let him take over.
I don't think I'll ever recover from his stunningly low murmur snaking up my skin when he leans back against the other side of the phone closet. I could reach out and grab him if I wanted, and yet he's still too far away for my libido to handle.
I want him to touch me. I’m dying for it, but he holds back.
He takes his time, looking me up and down, leaving no molecule of me unscathed from his scorching gaze. The tight space we're in falls away, and I'm utterly exposed.
I'm pinned up against the wall merely by the weight of his eyes on me when he says, “Show me what you’re working on.”
Distantly, I think the number of embarrassments I've had in front of this gargoyle have trained the feeling out of me. A few days ago, I wouldn't have had the audacity or bravery to spread my legs further and run my fingers through my wet folds, but now I hold his stare as I do, and a new wave of need ignites in my core.
My hips twitch involuntarily, arching my back for balance against the wall, claiming another inch of the remaining space between us. I spread my legs a little wider, as far as the walls will let me, revealing my messy cunt.
I watch his nostrils flare and the way his chest and wings move, itching to spread to their full extent, when I drag my fingers through the slickest part, delicate lines clinging to my fingertips.
“Maybe there's another angle you could take this from,” he says, his jaw tight around the words.
At first, I can’t think what he means, before he offers his arm to me to lean on. I take it without another thought, his sleeve cool under my palm, my heart quickening. He arranges himself to kneel on one knee, letting me lean back against his thigh. I’m careful not to sit entirely against him, somehow the thought of getting any of my personal liquids on his suit is more mortifying than fingering myself in his lap.
“You know how to do this,” he coaxes me, his voice a low rumble that nearly buckles my knees. His tail wraps firmly around my thigh, supporting my weight.
I don’t know if it’s the part where he believes in my competence, like it’s an inherent, unquestionable thing, or the part where he’s literally watching me finger myself, but it’s what I needed.
I resume my work, but this time my own touch makes me twitch and hiss at the contact. Clearly, I’m starved for sexual chemistry if just being in a phone closet with him is enough to make me feel like this.
I delve my fingers back in, feeling how hot, slick, and unfathomably soft I am.
I add another finger inside myself, wondering how many fingers thick his cock would be. Touching him, breathing in his heady scent lights my mind alive with new, shameless curiosity. What it would feel like for Vlad to kiss my cunt, to lick me open, and fuck me with his tongue? Would his tongue have the same stony texture his arms, or more like his hands? My hips buck at the thought of his sturdy body bent over mine; a broad arm curled around my thigh as my knees rested over his broad shoulders.
“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs, something guttural in his chest. My eyes flicker open to sweep over him and catch a glimpse of the arousal making itself known in his pants. I have just enough self-control not to try to get a better look, and desperately wish I didn’t.
With his face so close to mine, there’s no mistaking the dark heat in his amber eyes. It spreads through my body like wildfire, and I tip my head back in a loud moan as my release takes me.
I spread my legs ever wider, fucking myself on the one hand as I rock my hips upward, and rubbing my clit hurriedly with the other. Different types of pleasure start building within me, each trying to speak louder than the other, calling and answering in a rhythm that runs faster and faster. I’m dirty and shameless, horrible and wonderful, damned and unbroken, and I love every bit of it.
I stumble to get up when the tides of my orgasm recede, peeling myself off of him. We don’t say a word as we put ourselves back together into neater, less obviously entangled versions of ourselves.
