Claire gasps. Moans. Begs me for more.
She’s not pretending right now—I know that for sure. Just like I remember everything she loves most, and I am making sure to remind her how I acquired that information. I press a palm to her stomach, feeling her abdominal muscles bunch and flex as she squirms beneath me.
She’s close. Her cheeks are flushed. Her breathing is choppy. Her thighs are trembling.
I feel like a fucking god, registering her reaction to me. Claire has a hard time relinquishing control. That she’s handing it over to me so willingly feels like a gift.
Attraction is one thing. Want involves action. Includes a level of trust I worried might have been permanently destroyed between us.
I stop teasing her. Eat her out in earnest, biting and sucking and swirling and consuming, until she flies over the edge. My erection passed the point of painful a while ago. It was fucking aching long before Claire started moaning like this, but the erotic soundtrack is really not helping.
She goes still, so I sit up and slump against the cushions. Adjusting myself doesn’t help much. Not while Claire is naked from the waist down a foot away, her pussy pink and wet and puffy from my mouth.
Claire slowly sits up, breathing heavily. “That was…” Her voice trails. She’s blushing, eyes on the bulge in my pants. Her gaze moves higher, over my chest, and lingers on my right shoulder.
Claire leans closer. I catch a whiff of the shampoo she uses in her hair, the one that was in her bathroom at the Village and also in her LA hotel room, mixed with the smell of sex as she flicks open a few buttons of the dress shirt I wore to dinner. She tugs it aside, staring at the two incisions on my shoulder. Neither’s that long. The surgeon explained the entire process to me, but I was too stressed and scared, frankly, to pay close attention to the details of the procedure. They were as noninvasive as possible, wanting to minimize the scar tissue.
Will, who went to the appointment with me, said the surgeon was probably more nervous to operate on me than I was to be operated on, which wasn’t super reassuring. Beck said he seemed like an FC Ludlin—Kluvberg’s biggest rival—fan, so I’d be fine.
Her thumb slowly traces the lower line, then the higher one. The incisions are fully healed, but the knit skin is paler and more sensitive. I fight a shiver in response to the light brush.
“Do they hurt?” she whispers.
“Not anymore.”
Claire’s hand moves again, following the row of buttons down the center of my chest.
I’m barely breathing, silently praying this is headed where I hope it is.
“What about this?”
She palms me through the pants I’m wearing, and I swear I could come from this alone. I haven’t hooked up with anyone since I got injured, and the fact that this is Claire touching me? I’m going to have to jerk off after she leaves at the very least.
“Does this hurt?”
I laugh, but it comes out as more of a pained gasp. “Claire.”
“Yeah, I thought so.” She sounds smug, sliding off the couch and kneeling in front of me. “I’m not a doctor, but I could try to help?” Her fingers trail back and forth, teasing, and I can’t focus on anything else. “If you want me to?”
“Ja. Yes. Yes, Claire.”
She smirks as she spreads my thighs with her hands, settling between them. She holds eye contact as she unbuttons and unzips and tugs.
Fuck me. This is actually happening.
My cock appears, fully hard and leaking pre-cum.
Claire looks down. Her tongue swipes across her lower lip, and I can’t restrain the groan that spills out as she stares at my erection.
“You still wear the same brand of boxers.” She seems amused by that as she pulls my pants the rest of the way down.
“They send me free ones,” I croak.
Claire giggles—a light, happy laugh that causes a different sort of seizure in my chest—and then finally fists me.
I grunt, battling the urge to thrust in her hand.
“Not so fun, being teased, huh?”
