I’m still half weighing the ethical nature of what I already know I’m going to do as my hands skim down my body, sliding Leo’s tee shirt up to expose my belly beneath the blankets.
Is it wrong to touch yourself in the bed of your publicist, for whom you’ve had a thing for eight years?
Maybe, but no one’s ever going to find out, so there’s no real reason to stop, right?
It’s what I tell myself as my fingers continue to trail down, dipping beneath the lace edge of my panties, moving down to graze over the smooth skin there, always waxed because god forbid someone gets a glimpse of an ill-maintained bikini line.
But in my mind, it’s not my soft fingers sliding down: it’s Leo’s, thick and rough and warm, the same ones that wrapped around my wrist at his place, the same ones that grazed along the bare skin where my shirt and shorts didn’t reach when we danced.
When I brush over my clit, I find myself already wet, my hips shifting to get more, and I circle myself, pleasure spreading through my veins. My breathing hitches as I move down to my entrance, grabbing the wet there and dragging it up over my clit. The Leo in my mind groans when he feels just how wet I am, and a shaky breath leaves my lips.
After a few circuits of that, I need more and slide my hand down until a single finger slips inside.
A soft, needly mewl leaves my lips, and my breathing hitches and my body stills as I take in everything around me. My ears are on high alert, trying to listen for anything at all, but silence comes from the other side of the door, and I melt once more, my fingers sliding back out and over my clit.
Quiet.
I need to be quiet.
That’s normally easy, but right now, as I slide two fingers in and pump them, I have to bite my lip. It feelsso fucking good, and I know part of it is the visual I’m creating. Despite the precarious situation, my mind takes over, picturing what could have happened next if I were brave enough to ask for it.
Leo smiles when I ask him to climb into bed with me, then crawls up over me, a hand sliding up and under his tee as he cups my breast. His touch is rough, and it feels exquisite when his thumb and forefinger roll over my nipple, tugging as he goes.I bite my lip as my own hands follow that path, too soft to evoke the feeling of callouses, though. His lips move down my neck, licking and sucking, nipping at my skin as he goes. My hips lift as he settles between my legs, already naked in this drunken fantasy, before slowly sliding into me. I slide in three fingers, somehow knowing they won’t fill me the way he would.
After a few slow thrusts, I begin to fuck myself hard and fast and wild, just like I think Leo would, untethered in a way I don’t see him in his normal day-to-day life, and it builds fast. I could tell myself it’s because it’s been a while since I’ve felt the need to make myself come, since I’ve felt desire, but I know it’s so much more than that.
It’s Leo.
The temptation of him being around me all the time.
The bickering and bantering that feel more like foreplay than arguing.
The way, when he’s around, his eyes burn into me just like the girls told me.
The way his hands feel when he’s guiding me along, the way his hard body felt when we danced together, the way his eyes ate up the sight of me in his tee, like even though it would kill him to admit it, he can’t get enough of it, the palpable sexual tension between us.
When my thumb grazes over my clit, I picture him thumbing it as he looks at where he’s sliding into me and groaning deep. That’s what sends me over the edge. I turn my head into the pillow and groan as it rolls through me, wracking my body with trembles as I come and come and come.
It feels like it takes an eternity to come down from that high, for my breathing to regulate, for my senses to return, and as my common sense returns, my ears become alert, trying to listen for any sign that I wasn’t as quiet as I thought, but nothing but silence reaches my ears.
That was new.
Not just the speed or the intensity of the orgasm, but my own inability to bite back my reaction, the need to bury my face in his pillow as I came. I’ve always been quiet during sex and when taking care of myself, seeing it more as a necessary task to occasionally feel good and sate a human need. Making noise has never been appealing, and if anything, felt embarrassing. But justthinkingof Leo, it was nearly impossible to hold it in.
I mull over that for a while, deciding it’s probably due to my drunken state, lowered inhibitions, and all. After a while, my breathing evens out, and my eyes drift close. With the endorphins from a hard orgasm and the smell of Leo surrounding me, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
SIXTEEN
LEO
I hear it as I’m walking from the bathroom to the couch to sleep for the night.
The tiniest mewl.
A breathy sound I almost miss, but the house is dead quiet, so I don’t.
I pause outside my bedroom door, behind which my client lies in my bed, and hear it again. Willa.
I should go to the couch.
