He slides his finger up to the top, to my clit. Circles slow.
I buck, nearly coming off the table. My elbow slips, and I would have fallen if he wasn't leaned over me, his hand at my neck anchoring me. My other hand fists his shirt, knuckles white, dragging him closer.
"There," he says, his voice rough. "That's what I was circling on the peach. But you knew that, didn't you."
"Oh, god--Grey--Jesus--"
He circles again, slow and deliberate, and I see stars.
"When you touch yourself, you go right here, don't you?"
I whimper, hoping he doesn't expect an answer.
"Straight to the finish line." Another circle, and my hips jerk. "But there's so much more to explore first."
Down his finger goes, splitting my flesh again, gliding through my wetness.
"You're soft here," he says, almost conversational, like he's not destroying me. Like I'm not actually dying. His fingers trailing back up to circle my clit again. "Sensitive here."
Down again. This time, his finger dips just barely inside, just the tip, just a tease. I paw at him like an animal, one hand fisting his shirt to drag him closer.
I can hear a smile in his voice when he says, "Not yet."
I could kill him.
Up goes his finger, this time with more pressure. Firmer. Sliding with ease because I'm drenched.
"Feel how your body responds?" he murmurs. "How you get wetter the more I touch you?"
I haven't noticed, and he knows it. But he's right. I canhearit, the slick sound of his finger moving through my folds.
I should be embarrassed.
I amnot.
"That's your body getting ready," he says, "making sure everything feels good." His fingertip is slow and steady and perfect. "Too much pressure?"
"No." It's almost a sob. "No it's good. Don't stop."
"What about this?" He changes the pattern, side to side, and I wriggle and writhe.
"Oh—oh, Jesus--yes--" I gasp frantically, practically begging. "Please, don't stop."
"Never. Just learning what you like." He reads every response like it's the gospel. Firm pressure, and I gasp, hips lifting. Lighter, teasing, and I whine like a puppy. He chuckles darkly. "That's what I thought."
Firmer pressure again, and I nearly sob with relief. His hand shifts from my neck to grip my hair, not hard enough to hurt, just to hold. To tilt my head back a little more, exposing my throat. His body curves over mine, and then his mouth is on my neck, kissing, sucking, biting gently.
It's too much and not enough, a rush of fire and heat and sensation. His mouth on my throat, his finger on my clit, hand in my hair, my legs spread, his body covering mine. I can smell him, soap and sweat and smokey heat. I can hear him breathing, ragged and rough. I can feel the heat of his body, the hard press of his cock.
I am surrounded by him. Consumed by him.
I can't control my body, can't control the sounds coming out of me, whimpers and moans and gasps and his name over and over.
"Fuck, that's pretty." His lips brush my jaw, my ear, his breath hot in my ear when he says, "You sound so pretty when I touch you."
I'm going to burst into flames, spontaneously combust right here on my kitchen table. My hand flies, desperate, and grabs his wrist, the one attached to the hand intent on destroying me.
"Grey--Grey, I--"
