But it’s hard. Literally. When she’s right there.
I shift, trying to get comfortable. Trying to adjust without making it obvious.
The mattress dips with my weight, and I feel the fabric tug under me. She tenses again. I watch her breathe. In. Out. The rhythm of it is shallow. Too fast.
She’s nervous.
I don’t blame her.
I wait a long moment, letting the silence stretch. Letting her get used to me being here.
She’s going to have to because I won’t be letting this go so easily.
Then, I shift again—deliberate this time—letting my arm brush against her back through the duvet.
Just a whisper of contact.
Just a reminder.
Erica jerks slightly, a tiny, aborted movement like she’s been shocked.
Her breathing hitches.
I don't move away, letting her think it was an accident, though I'm not sure she'd fall for that. I want her to feel the heat of me there, so close to her skin, only fabric separating us.
Another minute passes.
Her back is still rigid against my arm, but she doesn't move. Doesn’t pull away.
I let my fingers flex slightly against the duvet, feeling the texture of it, the way it drapes over the curve of her spine. I don't grab. I don't hold. I just rest them there, getting her used to my proximity.
After a beat that feels like forever, she relaxes. A small, subtle movement that makes the duvet on her back fall slightly, gaping.
She’s curled on her side, facing away from me, with her tank top exposed. My gaze drops to it, tracing the delicate strap of it, the smooth skin of her shoulder. I could trace it with my tongue. I could taste her there. I could feel her shudder.
My cock thickens, straining against my briefs.
I take a slow breath, trying to rein it in.
I can feel her heat through the thin fabric of the duvet, and I’m hit with a memory so vivid it's almost like it's happening now: the heat of her bare skin under my hands in that hotel room, the way she felt moving against me, squirming and writhing desperately. Her moan in my ear as I held her down, pinned her with my body, and ordered her to come for me.
My hand flexes again, thumb pressing gently into the duvet, right over the dip of her lower back.
I watch her body react.
A shiver runs through her, starting at the point of contact and rippling outwards.
She shifts her leg, and I hear the soft whisper of skin on skin.
I don't know what she’s doing under there. But I can picture it.
My imagination runs wild.
I wonder if she’s wet.
I wonder if she’s thinking about the night of the auction.
Because I am.
