"The dress was too tight."
"Fuck." His hands are on me again, sliding up my thighs, over my hips. Thumbs brushing dangerously close to where I'm already wet for him. "You have any idea what I would've done if I'd known?" He moans.
"What would you have done?"
His thumb slides between my legs, I jolt at the contact.
"This," he says, circling my clit once. "Right there in that fucking VIP booth where anyone could see."
The image sends heat flooding through me. I shouldn't want that. But I do. He works me slowly, thumb circling, applying just enough pressure to make me squirm but not enough to give me what I need.
"Emmett." I gasp.
"Tell me what you want." He growls.
"More."
He slides one thick finger inside me.
I moan, and he answers with a groan of his own. "Fuck, you're so wet. Is this all for me?"
"Yes."
He adds a second finger, pumping slowly while his thumb continues its torture on my clit, making my knees nearly buckle. He wraps his free arm around my waist, holding me up.
"That's it," he encourages, voice rough. "Ride my hand."
I do, grinding against him, chasing the pleasure building low in my belly. It's been so long since anyone touched me like this. Since I let anyone touch me like this. Just when I'm about to come, he pulls his hand away. I make a sound of protest. He smirks. Actually smirks. Asshole.
"Not yet," he says. "Get on the bed."
I should be annoyed at the command but instead it sends another wave of heat through me. I do what he says, climbing onto the bed, lying back against the pillows. He stands at the foot of the bed, eyes raking over me, like a predator. He reaches for his shirt and slowly unbuttons it with efficient movements.
"Touch yourself," he orders.
My hand slides between my legs automatically, finding my clit, circling it the way he was.
"That's it," he says, shrugging off his shirt. "Show me how you like it."
I watch as more of him is revealed. He's all muscle and broad shoulders that taper to a narrow waist with defined abs. A V-cut disappears into his waistband, dark hair across his chest, and old bruises scatter across his ribs. He's beautiful, masculine. Built like an athlete. Is he an athlete? Maybe an American one judging by his accent, probably a footballer. One I'm not familiar with. His hands go to his belt, and I watch as he unbuckles it, then unzips his pants, shoving them down along with his boxers.
My hand stills.
His cock springs free.
And it's ... impressive. Thick and long. Already leaking at the tip. The kind of size that's going to stretch me, fill me completely and I lick my lips.
"Don't stop," he says, nodding at my hand between my legs. "I want to watch you."
I resume touching myself, circling my clit while he wraps his hand around his cock, stroking himself slowly.
"You like watching me?" I ask.
"I like seeing you spread out on my bed. Touching that pretty pussy while you stare at my cock."
The dirty talk should embarrass me, instead, it makes me wetter. He climbs onto the bed and settles between my legs, his hands grip my thighs, spreading them wider.
"I'm going to need to taste you first," he says. Not asking. Telling. Then his mouth is on me. I cry out. He doesn't tease. Doesn't build slowly. He devours me like he's starving. His tongue flicks over my clit, then flattens, licking a long stripe from my entrance to the sensitive bundle of nerves. He does it again. And again. My hands fly to his hair, gripping tight. My hips buck against his face, he encourages it with a groan that vibrates through me. He slides two fingers back inside me while his mouth works my clit, the combination is overwhelming. I'm already close from touching myself. From watching him. It doesn't take long before I'm tipping over the edge.
