When I’m done, I rinse off, keeping my face impassive. I let the water slide down me, washing the soap away, before reaching for the handle to turn the water off.
“Wait,” Ansel says suddenly. “You haven’t finished.”
I don’t smirk, I just shoot him a confused look. That’s me. Completely innocent. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind. “What?”
Ansel’s cheeks are burning. He gestures at my crotch. “You haven’t washed…you know.”
I raise a brow. “I thought you weren’t watching.”
“I wasn’t,” he says. “I mean, I was trying not to. But you make it hard to ignore you.”
My gaze dips down to his jeans, to the bulge that definitely wasn’t there earlier. “Just admit it. You want me.”
“Whatever,” he mutters. “I’m leaving. You’re obviously not going to escape.”
I soap up my hand before wrapping it around my cock. My hard, aching cock. “But how will you know I’m all clean?”
His eyes bug as I start to slowly stroke myself.
“You better watch closely,” I say huskily. “Make sure I’m being thorough.”
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning myself. Gotta make sure I’m doing it properly.”
“That isn’t cleaning yourself. You’re getting yourself off.”
I shrug one shoulder as I tighten my grip. All the tension is falling away now, the slow-burning lust rising to take its place. “So what if I am? If you’re not going to take care of me, then I’ll take care of myself.”
“I’m not doing this,” he whispers, watching the flick of my wrist like a hawk. “This is wrong. So fucking wrong.”
He doesn’t move to leave.
I step closer to the edge of the tub. “Stop thinking about what’s wrong and right and just let yourself feel.”
Ansel’s chest is rising and falling sharply. He can’t look away from where I’m touching myself. His pupils are completely blown as he stares, mesmerized.
Spreading my legs wider, I jack myself steadily under Ansel’s gaze. Fuck, it’s so hot with him watching me. Do I have an exhibitionist kink I didn’t know about? Or is it just because it’s Ansel?
It’s probably that. Everything about this man seems to turn me the fuck on.
My skin feels like it’s on fire as I drag myself closer to the edge. My balls are aching for release, so I tug on them roughly. I’m desperate to touch Ansel, to drag him in here and devour those pouty lips. Topush him up against the wall and rut against his ass. Maybe put my cock between his thighs and use them as a sleeve.
Then, once I’m done, I’ll go to my knees. I’ll take him into my throat until he’s screaming my name. Until nothing else exists except the way that he feels.
I don’t do any of that, though. Not yet. It’s too soon. Ansel isn’t ready.
Just the thought of it is enough to have my balls drawing up. There are so many things I want to do with my butterfly. Countless things.
Right now though, I’ll settle for seeing him come.
His hand drifts to the bulge in his jeans. He presses against it, his tongue swiping at his lower lip.
“That’s it,” I encourage him, my voice little more than a rasp. “Touch yourself. Show me how much you’re enjoying the show.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
