My eyes move greedily up his firm chest, his defined pecs rising and falling sharply as his rib cage expands and deflates, and continue over the strained cords of his neck. His head hangs back onto his pillow, the hard edges of his jaw shadowed by stubble, his mouth parted in not-so-silent gasps.
Each guttural sound clambers from deep within him, gruff and thick, as if fighting past the need constricting his throat. His eyes are squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in what could just as easily be mistaken for pain or devastation if I didn’t already know what held those gorgeous features hostage.
Pure, primal lust.
I don’t dare so much as shift my weight for fear of being caught spying as David’s hand finds a tempo, sliding up and down to music only he can hear. Faster and faster he moves, his bicep flexed tight, the muscles in his arm a seductive tapestry of ink as they do their job to bring him closer and closer to the edge.
The expanse of his hand does nothing to mask the sheer size of his arousal, so impossibly hard and thick that I can’t imagine it performing as nature intended with anything other than a very experienced female counterpart. It’s just another way David and I don’t fit, figuratively, and now, literally.
No wonder he’s so cocky. I cringe internally, because puns. But any man walking around with that between his legs has every right to David’s trademark sexual confidence, and I can’t help but idly wonder if I exude my inexperience and self-doubt just as surely.
A muffled moan rips through his gritted teeth, reminding me that this isn’t the time for self-pity. Not when David is unknowingly treating me to the most erotic moment of my life, and that includes sex with Brian.
David’s fist tightens even more, his face contorting in some kind of agony as he worships himself with an almost violent vigor. “Fuck, yes,” he breathes.
Instantly I imagine that deep timbre whispered into my ear, and my breath catches, my heart threatening to pound its way out of my chest.
“Spread those sweet thighs for me.” I can only just make out the mumbled words he growls to some invisible woman. Surely one who’s been in his bed in a decidedly different way than I have.
“You fucking love having me inside you, don’t you, beautiful girl…” It’s not a question, it’s a taunt, and whether the woman he’s picturing is real or imagined, I have no doubt she absolutely does love it.
But my envy of his invisible partner is overshadowed by the effects of his dirty words, and heat consumes my lower belly, the ache between my legs flaring almost painfully.
I stare, unblinking, in rapt fascination as his movements grow more frenzied, chasing release like he’s in some kind of race to disarm a bomb before it explodes.
But the explosion is what he’s after, of course, and I’ve never been so eager to witness something in my life. I am immoral and indecent and wanton.
But I can worry about that later.
My thighs press together again and again in search of some relief, my hips rocking subtly to the same music guiding David’s hand. His pelvis joins the dance, thrusting savagely into his fist as if it’s a girl above him instead of his own hand. Instantly I picture myself in the role, straddling him as his fingers grip my hips, urging me over him the way he needs.
The image invokes a visceral, physical reaction, and I have to forcibly resist the urge to slip my fingers beneath my towel.
David’s rhythm changes again, growing desperate and erratic. He growls muffled words I mostly can’t make out as his back arches and his hips rut toward the ceiling. “Ride it…” Words I can’t decipher…“beautiful girl…” Unintelligible…“Yes, baby…take it all…”
His face contorts in a perfect mask of ecstasy and he goes off in a symphony of gasps and groans. And then a word I’m sure I’ve imagined—
“Bea.”
I freeze. For a split second I allow myself to get lost in the fantasy—that it’s me inside his head.
But it’s a fast trip back to reality. Because of course he didn’t say my fucking name. He wasn’t thinking of me as he furiously pleasured himself. “Bea,” can be a part of so many words, including ba-by, which is clearly in his dirty little repertoire of vocabulary.
David sighs a sound of pure satisfaction, sagging back onto the bed, still half on another planet.
He catches his breath, and his lids dazedly flutter open after just a few moments. It’s all the time he allows himself to bask in the afterglow before returning to earth with a crash landing. His eyes are anxious and his movements suddenly hastened. He grabs a handful of tissues from the dispenser on his nightstand, and expertly cleans his mess. He shoots a nervous glance in my direction, and though my brain knows full well there’s no way he could see me from where I stand, it doesn’t stop me from flinching.
David frowns, his head tilting in a way that makes me think he’s straining to hear if the shower’s still running. I guess he was too distracted to notice when it turned off several minutes ago. He tucks himself back into his pants and casts another nervous look toward the door, and I finally snap out of my lustful, David-induced trance.
I am a perfect little mouse as I tiptoe across the hall and back into the bathroom, careful not to make a sound. I wait no more than ten seconds before I leave again, closing the door hard enough that David will hear it and think I’ve just now finished my shower.
I knock tentatively on his bedroom door, pulling my towel a little higher and tightening the knot.
“Bea? Uh, come in,” he calls.
I do. He’s still in just his pajama pants, but he’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, his handsome face arranged in its usual easy aloofness.
I catch his gaze sliding up my bare legs, and he rakes his fingers through his bed-mussed mahogany locks. It takes me until now to realize that my state of undress is making him uncomfortable, and my cheeks heat. “I, uh—forgot to bring my clothes to the bathroom,” I murmur.
