“I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” I admit, breath caught in my throat.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about your tits either,” he says. “That fucking ring through your nipple. I want to bite it. Tug on it with my teeth and see what happens.”
My body responds like he did just that. Nipples firm, pussy soaked, and clit pulsing. He’s not the only one about to burst here. I moan at the thought, the picture he’s painted, and I want him to paint something else for me. My face, my chest, my stomach. The thought turns me on in ways I can’t explain, and I need it.
“Show me what you do when you think of me,” I urge him, shifting so I’m kneeling, resting back with my ass on my heels, legs spread just enough for him to see, maybe even to smell what he’s doing to me.
“You want me to jerk off?”
I nod again, subtle movements of my head, eyes homed in on the view in front of me.
“Can… Can I watch you?” I manage to get the question out with only a small blush.
“Oh, fuck. Hell yeah you can,” he says with the kind of enthusiasm reserved for people with clean hearts and good souls. It’s a kind I haven’t felt myself in far too long.
His nostrils flare as he rotates, positions himself up until he’s on his knees in front of me, towering over me as he moves one hand to grip himself.
It’s the perfect view.
Those cut lines on his hips jut down, dragging my eyes straight to the main attraction, like they’d have any trouble finding it on their own. There’s no missing this man, that cock that could be the mold that pleases the masses. But for twenty-four hours, it’s for me alone. I’m not going to waste a moment that I have him—it—to myself.
“What do you normally do?” The question is so soft I worry he won’t hear it, but he answers immediately.
“First,” he says, flexing his fingers around his shaft, “I slick my hand down my shaft, imagining you’re in front of me.”
“Like this?” I ask him, bouncing in place just once, just enough that my tits jiggle and his eyes drag down to my spread thighs.
“Fuck, you’re better than perfect. Yeah, angel, like that.”
“Then what?”
“Then I pull on it, squeeze it as I stroke it upward.”
My mouth can’t decide what to do. It dries out, then fills back up with saliva, desperate to get involved in the action somehow. My pussy has no such confusions. It knowsexactlyhow to prepare for its eventual master. Those inner walls flex and flutter at the sight, his narration of this religious experience for me. My underwear feel hot, uncomfortably wet, and I want them gone. They’re in the way. But I practice restraint.
Right now, I’m here to watch, not to play.
I’ll have my turn.
Weston’s hand pumps at a slow pace, his strong, sure grip moving up and down the length of his thick shaft.
My breaths mold to his movements, every inhale mirroring his downstroke, my exhales matching his upstrokes.
It feels like even our blood is flowing in the same rhythm. Like we’re so connected right now that watching him come might push me over the edge.
I break eye contact with the one-eyed monster and look up at that godlike face to see him staring at me, not watching the show he’s putting on for me like I expected. It takes my breath away, stutters my heart for a second with the intensity I see there.
“My imagination hasn’t done this justice,” he says through staggered breaths. “I’m not talented enough to picture you looking this perfect. Like you’d do anything for a taste.”
I sway my head from one side to the other. “No touching, remember?” I remind him. “I’m being a good girl. That’s what you like, right?”
He screws his eyes shut and I watch in fascination as a bead of sweat starts to roll down one temple. Those biceps of his bulge as his strokes get firmer, stronger as he works himself harder to show me what I want to see.
“God dammit, Amelia, you’re so fucking sexy it’s unreal.”
“What do you think about when you do this normally?” I ask him.
“Your tits,” he says, without hesitation.
