“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what it was? Maybe Icouldhelp?” There’s a husky edge to his voice as he dips his free hand into his back pocket and produces the towel I wore earlier. He brings it to his nose and inhales it. He closes his eyes, growling, like he’s savoring the scent of me. “When I grabbed this upstairs, it was all I could think about.”
So that’s what broke him. The scent of me on the towel. Knowing that, I say “fuck it” too.
“You could help with the ache between my thighs,” I offer.
His eyes fly open. Smiling salaciously, he tucks the towel back into his pocket, then lowers the basting brush between my thighs, running it along the fabric of my skort. He rubs me there, right there, where I want him. It’s such a relief.
“That helps,” I whisper breathily.
“Does it help enough?”
I shake my head. “I need a little more.”
“Yeah, you really do,” he says, then drags the bristles with more pressure down my center, then up, sliding against the fabric covering my swollen clit. With each stroke, I ache more and more.
I haul in a breath. “Don’t stop.”
“You need more help?” he asks teasingly.
“I do.”
He coasts the bristles over the fabric of my skort that’s getting wetter and wetter. My legs are already shaking.
“More,” I whisper. I can’t believe he’s doing this to me again. Practically getting me off without his hands, without his tongue, without his cock.
Before, it was his thigh. Now it’s a goddamn basting brush.
I’m close, but I’m not quite there. He pushes one leg of my skort to the side, exposing me in my panties to him. I’m dying for him to tear off my clothes, but I also know this is a game we’re playing. He rubs the bristles against the cotton of my panties, faster, a little harder, just right.
I gasp. I shudder. I grab his shoulders.
“This helps?” he asks innocently.
“So much,” I say.
“Would this help too?” He lifts the brush and slaps my ass with it. I yelp, because it hurts so good.
“Again?”
“Please.”
He smacks my other cheek as pleasure ripples through me. He smacks me one more time, and I tremble. “Helps so much,” I pant.
“Good,” he says, then returns to my pussy, where I’m aching for him. “Use this basting brush. Get it all wet with your juices. I want you to soak your panties so badly that I can taste you on this when you’re done.”
Pleasure zips through me. I rock against the brush as he strokes me with it until an orgasm seizes me. I moan. I cry out. I whimper. And I come so goddamn hard.
“So, so pretty,” he praises as he lifts the brush and sucks off the bristles. It didn’t even touch me. He used it through my panties, but he’s tasting it as if it’s the most delicious thing ever.
Maybe it is to him—this little taste. This tiny tease.
When he’s done, he smirks. “Like I said, I’m very helpful.”
I smile dopily, the aftereffects of the climax still rocking me. “You sure are.”
He sets the brush on the counter, then tugs off my skort. I’m not sure what he’s doing, but seconds later, he skims off my panties too, taking them. He drops them in his pocket, then he puts my skort back on.
When he finishes adjusting it, he smacks my ass. “That was just help. That was all.”
