Does it make me especially wicked to have been dining with one man while thinking of another? Of the deep sound of his laughter? Of how he slept on his stomach, his strong arms curved around the pillow beneath his head. Of his touch?
I close my eyes, turning to rest my cheek on my forearm as a breath of evening breeze from the window crosses my bare skin, bringing with it a shock of sensory memory. Ben’s breath, hot and tight in my ear, his body over mine. The dish containing my recently removed jewellery chinks as I retract my hand and, without any real cognisance, bring my fingers to the elastic of my panties.
I haven’t orgasmed since Saturday evening. This business of no doors is so inconvenient. To hell with him for rousing things in me—I’d gone from being too tired for sex to damn near obsessed by it—obsessed by him.
I slide my hands over the gossamer fabric, holding myself fully in my hand, my sigh ragged as I as push, rotating into my palm.
‘God, I need to come.’ My whisper echoes in the air as I recall the sensation of Ben’s body over me, hard and warm, pinning me to the bed with the solid weight of him. The feel of his muscled back, flexing beneath my fingertips, the scruff of his jaw and chin abrading my neck so deliciously.
My hand won’t bring me the same pleasure. Not as I slip my fingers inside. Not as I coat my clit in my own arousal.But it will do.
‘Oh.. .’ It will do.
At the first brush past that little bundle of nerves, my body begins to quake as I imagine my hand is his. I begin to pet, sliding my fingers in that well-practised rhythm. A toy might be better—I could prolong the action. Give myself the orgasm I deserve. But for now, I want this. I want to imagine the feel of him behind me, caging me in as he paints small circles against my clit.
I arch my hips in the direction of the chest, pressing myself harder into my hand, needing more pressure as I widen my stance.
As I reach that point of no return, my knees lock, my thighs trembling as I being to apply pressure to that swollen bundle of nerves, listening to the sound of my laboured breath as I recall the filthy hum of his whispered words.
That’s it, sweetheart. Fuck my fingers. Fuck them hard.
I can feel how your tight little pussy is desperate for my cock.
I rock into my hand, the images his words invoke pushing me over that blinding hot edge as I cry out his name.
My pulse hammers in my ears, my clit pulsing beneath my fingertips as I pull them from my panties, but for all of this, my orgasm was barely adequate.I should shower, I think, then decide against it. I don’t want to wake up but rather to crawl into bed, blackout, and see what tomorrow brings.
I stretch my arms above my head and stretch, reach for the lamp on top of the chest, then pull open the drawer to grab my pyjamas, balancing them on the open drawer as I reach around and loosen my bra, turning to drop it onto the bed.
‘That was the hottest thing, half-pint.’
I squeal, then shriek, holding my pyjamas to my chest as though they could somehow stop my heart from beating out of my chest. Meanwhile, Ben lies in front of me, on my bed, entirely unconcerned. Well, apart from the obvious erection his jeans barely conceal. A million things run through my head, none of them making much sense, and none I’m able to form into words currently.
‘Hands down, that was one of the top three hottest things I’ve ever seen in my life.’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better?’ I eventually shriek. Like a harridan. Or someone who’d just experienced half an orgasm. ‘You nearly gave me a stroke.’
‘You didn’t look like you needed any help stoking.’
If I wasn’t red before, I become so immediately. ‘What are you doing here, Ben? ‘Apart from looking like the devil sitting on his throne?
‘I came to see how your date went.’
‘This is a conversation we could’ve had in the kitchen—’ He arches a brow. And yes, I know, conversations have begun in that room that left me in fewer clothes than I’m currently wearing, but still. ‘Or the lounge.’
‘I’m happy to have conversations like this anywhere. Just say the word.’
‘You can’t come barging into my room whenever you feel like it,’ I grumble, throwing my pyjama pants onto the edge of the bed before stabbing my arms through the T-shirt, dragging it over my head. As I push the hair from my face, I notice his gaze glide from the bra on the bed to my panties before rising to my face with a scowl.
‘I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but there’s no door, half-pint,’ he replies in a cool tone. ‘I’m sensing a lot of frustration here.’
‘Of course I’m frustrated. This is an invasion of my privacy.’
‘Says the woman who came into the bedroom already half undressed.’
‘I didn’t think you were home,’ I retort.
‘And didn’t mean you were frustrated by me.’
