I trap my breath behind my teeth and fix my eyes on his erection, burgeoning against the cruel confines of his underwear, the pink tip sprouting above the rim of his boxer-briefs.
I slip my hand under the elastic, palm sliding over skin, scraping against the coarse scratch of his pubic hair, and then I curl my fingers around the thick, hard heat of his erection.
His sharp inhalation at my touch is a soft hiss of tongue tip against teeth, followed by a hollowing of his stomach and a tightening of his abs. His gaze is hard and inscrutable, impossible to read, impossible to fathom the depth of thought and emotion. His whole body is tensed now, flexed and iron-hard. His jaw ticks. His hands are curled into fists at his sides.
This isn't for him, it's for me. I am touching him for my own enjoyment, not out of any desire to bring him pleasure. That is merely an incidental by-product.
Watching his face for reactions, I caress his length, once, slowly, in a loose, soft grip. His eyes narrow and his jaw ticks, but that's it.
Clearly, if I want a reaction out of him, I'm gonna have to bring my A-game.
The subtle, mischievous spark in his eyes is a gauntlet thrown at my feet:
Challenge accepted.
7
ACTION AND REACTION
JAKOB
Her hand is tiny.
I am, I admit, rather improbably well-endowed; more than one previous sexual partner has stated that I ride the cusp of too big for comfort, and one woman, memorably, took one look at my erection and left without a word. I have assumed she did so out of fear, and since she offered no explanation, that's the answer I'm going with.
Which means that Brys’s small, soft, delicate, elegant hands make my already-large organ seem even more disproportionately enormous in comparison. My ego most assuredly needs no inflation, but itisa nice feeling, looking down and seeing her little hand wrapped around my cock, the size of my dick making her hand look even smaller and my dick even bigger.
The urge to take over is all-consuming. I deny myself that relief with vicious self-control. It means not moving at all. It means barely breathing. It means every muscle is tensed, every fiber of my being straining against the confines of my control.
I need control oversomethingat all times. If not her, then at least myself. Control is an integral part of who I am. My urge is to control her; use her; take her.
She's got her hand wrapped around my cock, yet she's barely touching me. I want to knot my fists in her honey-colored hair and feed her my cock, inch by inch. Watch her lips stretch around me, struggle to take all of me. Watch her eyes widen as I fuck her throat, watch her try to swallow around me.
Fuck, it's been a long time.
"Do dead men fuck, Jakob?" she asks, apropos of nothing.
"Yes."
She smirks. "Interesting."
"You probably don't want to know."
"I do, though."
I cast a pointed glance at her hand, wrapped around me. "Is thatreallywhat you wish to discuss at this particular moment?"
"No," she murmurs. "Not really. But I will want to, later."
"Perhaps."
Her thumb roves lazily over my tip, the pad sliding delicately over the slit; her eyes flick from me to my cock and back, assessing me, scrutinizing my reaction. She wants my expression, I realize. She wants my reactions. She wants to get something out of me.
I don't want to allow it. I can't. I can't let anyone see the truth of me, can't let anyone see who I am—who I was. I don't know that I know who I am—not anymore. Maybe I never have. I can't give this woman any part of me, not even an honest reaction. It's dangerous—for her. I am not a safe man, and not just because of this current situation. Who I am is dangerous. My need for control, my need to dominate, to own, to master…it is obsessive and all-consuming.
I died to set Isabel free of my need for total control.
I spent a decade in near total isolation, hiding from the world and my own destructive nature.
