My pussy is clenched and aching as I stare, my mouth dry and face flaming hot.
"Molly?" His voice is strained, tight, like he's barely holding on.
I nod at his cock. Words have abandoned me.
"Molly." Firmer now. "Look at me."
My eyes snap to his face.
"I mean it--. You don't have to--"
"I want to," I interrupt. "I really, really want to."
He looks relieved, a little amused, but mostly like he's dying.
I reach for him, but the angle is awkward with us still tangled together.
"Here," he says, guiding me to stay on my side but pulling me closer. He pulls my leg higher on his thigh, penning me up, instantly leaving me hyper aware of how wet I am, how exposed I am, the cool air licking the inside of my thighs.
Now I can reach him easily. And even better, I can see everything--his face, his body, his cock, see every little reaction.
Then he takes my hand, his grip gentle but firm. Guides it to him, wraps my fingers around his shaft.
I draw a surprised little breath. How is something this hard this soft?
Grey purses his lips, sucks in a breath through his nose, his cock throbbing in my grip. I almost let go in shock.
"What do I do?" I manage.
He adjusts my grip, not too tight, not too loose, just firm enough.Don't squeeze too hard don't squeeze too hard DON'T SQUEEZE TOO HARD.
"Like this." He guides my hand up slowly,agonizinglyslow. His breath hitches, catches. Then down just as slowly--his hips flex, pressing into my grip. I'm fascinated--the skin moves over the hardness beneath. I watch his face, transfixed, hanging on every tiny reaction. The flare of his nostrils, the part of his lips.
"Breathe," he says breathlessly, and I don't know if he's talking to me or himself.
He guides me through a few more strokes, up and down, steady rhythm. And then his hand falls away, lets me take over. Trusting me.
"That's it," he rasps. "Just like that."
Instantly, I’m unsure, but he's responding. His breath quickening. Noisier. Labored. His hips start to move, small thrusts into my fist, following my rhythm, chasing my hand. And I realize I'm doing this to him, making him feel good. MakingGreyfeel good.
Making him lose his mind.
"Tighter," he grits out, and I adjust, squeezing a little more. He groans. "Fuck, yes. Yes,"
Tighter is good, got it.
Braver now, I experiment. A little faster, and I watch him react.
His jaw clenches, eyes squeezing shut, the muscles and tendons in his neck and shoulders standing out.
"Slower, baby," he says gently, his hand still on my bent knee squeezing. "Not a race, remember."
"Like the peach." I slow down focusing on the glide, the rhythm, the slip of skin.
"Like the peach," he echoes.
His stomach muscles twitch with every stroke. His abs clench and release, flexing. The way his chest heaves, the flush creeping up his neck. The sheen of sweat on his skin.
