I peel off my tank top with shaking hands. My nipples are hard, visible through my bra, aching to be touched. When did that happen? During the hug? Before? Have I been turned on this entire time and just didn't notice because I was too busy being terrified?
What kind of fucked up person gets horny after what happened?
Except it's not about Jason. That piece of shit killed any arousal I might have felt the second he touched me without permission. No, this wetness, this need, this desperate ache between my thighs… That's all Boone.
Boone coming to save me. Boone punching Jason unconscious. Boone holding my hand and promising to always come when I call.
I shimmy out of my jeans and look down at my panties. They're absolutely drenched. The white cotton is transparent with how wet I am, clinging to every fold, outlining everything. I can see the shape of my pussy lips through the fabric. Can see the wet spot that's soaked all the way through.
Jesus Christ. This is obscene.
I hook my thumbs in the waistband and slide them down. They're sticky, leaving a trail of wetness on my thighs. When I pull them off completely, there's a string of my own arousal connecting the fabric to my pussy.
I am *drenched*. Swollen and slick and throbbing.
And Boone Sullivan is right across the hall.
I press my thighs together, trying to ease the ache, but it only makes it worse. I need to touch myself. Need to come. I need to ease this desperate, building pressure before I lose my mind.
I turn on the shower and step under the spray, letting hot water cascade over my overheated skin. My hands move automatically.One cupping my breast, pinching my nipple, the other sliding between my thighs.
I'm so wet the water barely makes a difference. My fingers slip through my folds easily, finding my clit swollen and sensitive. I bite my lip to keep from moaning.
I think about Boone. Can't help it. Think about his hands on my waist, so big they almost wrapped all the way around. Think about how they'd feel on my tits, squeezing, pinching. Think about him in the truck, jaw clenched, breathing heavy, looking at me like—
Like what? Like he wanted me? Or am I making that up too?
I circle my clit faster, working myself toward orgasm. I've done this so many times. Touched myself thinking about Boone. Imagined his hands, his mouth, his cock. Pictured him taking me apart slowly, thoroughly, the way he does everything else.
I imagine him in the shower with me now. Imagine his body. All those muscles I've seen when he works shirtless at the ranch, that broad chest and those thick arms and those powerful thighs. Imagine him backing me against the tile, lifting me like I weigh nothing, pinning me with his hips.
Would his cock be as big as the rest of him? Probably. God, definitely. I imagine it thick and long and hard, pressing between my thighs, the head nudging my entrance.
My fingers move faster. I'm close. So close.
I imagine him pushing inside. Imagine the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming sensation of being taken by someone that big. Imagine his voice in my ear—that deep, rough voice that makes my knees weak—telling me I'm perfect, I'm beautiful, I'm his.
I come hard, biting my arm to muffle the sound, thighs shaking, pussy clenching around nothing. Wave after wave of pleasurecrashes through me, and I ride it out thinking about Boone, always Boone, only Boone.
When I finally come down, I'm embarrassed. Ashamed. He saved me tonight and here I am, masturbating in his shower, using him as spank bank material without his knowledge or consent.
I'm as bad as Jason.
No. No, that's not true. I would never force myself on Boone. Would never touch him without permission. Would never make him uncomfortable or unsafe. Fantasies are just fantasies. They exist in my head and hurt no one.
But still. It feels wrong. Feels like a violation of his kindness.
I finish washing quickly, using his soap that smells like cedar and something earthy. It smells like him. Like every fantasy I've ever had. I wash my hair with his shampoo too, because I don't have a choice, and try not to think about how I'll smell like him afterward.
Try and fail spectacularly.
When I turn off the water and step out, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My face is flushed, lips swollen from biting them, eyes glazed with post-orgasm satisfaction. My hair is wet and messy. My body is on full display. Curves, stretchmarks and all the things I usually try to hide under baggy clothes.
I've never been comfortable with my body. My mom was thin, elegant. My friends are all skinny. And here I am, curvy and thick, with an ass that's too big and tits that are too much and thighs that touch when I walk.
But Boone didn't look at me like I was too much tonight. He looked at me like...
No. Stop. I'm reading things that aren't there.
