“Come here.”
She frowns slightly, then moves toward me, stopping when her knees touch my side.
“No. Comehere. Like you were in the tub.” I guide her to straddle my stomach.
That’s it. Just like that. Don’t move. Let me.
I force the voice away. This isn’t then. This isn’t her.
“Put your hands on my chest.”
She does, resting her palms flat against my skin, fingers splayed.
Such a good pet. Lie still.
“Move them. Explore me. Do all the things you thought about when you saw me in the stream.”
Her throat moves as she swallows, and for a moment I think she might refuse, but then her hands start sliding over me. One reaches for my shoulder, following the curve of muscle down to my arm. The other traces along my ribs.
You’re so warm. So solid.
Hands roaming wherever they wanted. Taking whatever they wanted.
Butthesehands pause, as though she can hear what I’m thinking. She’s looking at my face, a small furrow between her brows, teeth worrying at her bottom lip.
“Keep going.”
Her eyes search mine for a moment longer. Then she takes a breath, as though she’s about to speak, shakes her head slightly, and leans forward.
Her weight shifts as she leans forward, and the wet heat of her pressed against me snaps my attention firmly back to the present. She’s slick.Aroused. From my mouth on her, from this … from straddling me and touching me…
Having me at her mercy.
“Move your hips.”
“What?” Confusion flickers across her face. “What do you mean?”
“Lift up a little.”
When she rises on her knees, I reach down to adjust my erection, then pull her back down. Her eyes round when she feels me slide along her wetness.
“Now move your hips.”
“Like … like this?” A tentative rock of her hips drags her along my dick, and the friction—slick, and hot, and perfect—makes my teeth clench.
“Yes.”
Her cheeks flush darker, but she does it again. It takes a moment or two for her to find a rhythm, her movements uncertain at first, then growing bolder as she discovers what feels good.
Don’t move. Don’t you dare move.
Hips grinding down on me. Using my body for friction while I lay still and stare at the ceiling.
But I’m not staring at the ceiling. I’m watching her face—the way her lips part, the way her eyes lose focus, the way her breath comes faster. She’s chasing her own pleasure, and something about that heats my blood in ways I haven’t felt in a long time.
She’s using my body for her pleasure, the way they used to. Except …
Except I told her to. And Iwantto watch her.
