Breathe in. Breathe out.
Willfully ignoring my commands, my hips keep on flexing, and my thighs press together.
A touch louder this time, I reassert my dominance. “Lila Kent isn’t a slave to her clit. It’s a tiny part of her, under the control of her conscious mind. Succumbing to the whims of her clit isn’t something she does.”
Breathe in. Breathe out.
No change. And I was so sure that phrasing it in third person would do the trick. I’ll need to be more direct.
“Hips, I command thee to cease movement. Vagina, you are ordered to dry up. Clitoris, shrivel immediately, or I’ll buy that BDSM numbing cream.”
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Teaming up with the rest of my defiant body parts, my hand slips down my body after throwing the bird at me.
I’d smack my sneaky hand away with the other one, but the pervert probably likes it rough.
Frustrated, I throw a mini-tantrum, thrashing my head into the pillow and kicking the mattress. “Not again. Not now. No, no. This isn’t fair.”
Why didn’t this happen at my house, where I have a wide array of pleasure pals? Reed won’t bang me unless I’m sober. His moral character shows through at the most inconvenient times. And it’s bordering on cruel tonight.
I admit I’m not in myfullyrational mind, but I was gonna have sex with him when he got home regardless. Assuming he still wanted me.
And he does. That erection and his velvety tone proved it. I can still hear the way he ordered me to use his thigh to make myself come.
Gah. That was hot.
I can’t stand the emptiness any longer. If Reed won’t fill me, I’ll do it myself. My fingertips locate my clit again, swirling and teasing it before sinking into my opening. I give it three pumps then retreat.
Ugh. Using my fingers isn’t the same. I don’t know if it’s the angle or my finger length, but it never does it for me. Not even in this hyper-aroused state.
Undirected by my conscious brain, my vision lands on the brush on the bedside table. Reed gave it to me before he got in the shower so I could work through the knots I’d been avoiding thinking about. But now my intrusive thoughts suggest a different purpose.
That’s enough nonsense. No, no, no. Iwillnot get off with Reed’s brush handle. I have standards.
Trying to distract myself, I release some of my whimsy in verbal form. “Hey, ghosts, let me ask you something. Between Uber Eats and DoorDash, which is more likely to deliver a dildo at this late hour? And would there be a kinky surcharge?”
“Again, cookie?”
The ghosts sound like Reed.
My eyes shoot hoot-owl wide, giving me a jaw-dropping vision of him at the foot of the bed. Damp hair and a towel tied around his waist. My vagina starts twitching in Morse code, instructing me to remove his towel and get his dick inside her.
Harlot puss.
I won’t do that because I respect his consent. Under protest.
“Come on, Reed. Must you? Only a towel?” I sit up and spread my arms open, letting the covers fall to my waist. “If you aren’t gonna let me play with yourbarely concealed weapon, then cover up the rest of yourself. Do you have a Parka or something? Turtleneck sweater?”
During my sexually frustrated rant, his eyes fell to my chest. “Fucking hell,” he growls.
I glance down, noticing that my tummy is visible thanks to how I washandling myselfbefore I sat up. My boobs are stretching his white tee to the max, and my nipples poke through the fabric like I’m smuggling raisins on top of cantaloupes.
I yank down my shirt to cover my midsection with the hand that was preparing to resume diddling duties. Nervously, I peek back at Reed to gauge the level of disgust in his reaction to my unintentional chub flashing.
He stalks around the bed, approaching me as his towel struggles to conceal a growing situation below his waist.
Question answered. It wasnotdisgust. Quite the opposite, actually.
