Wetness gathers, sliding warm between my folds. I feel it dampening the inside of my underwear, then warmer still as it slicks lower, threatening to slip onto my thigh.
“Come on, what?” I breathe. “I’m just asking about your process.”
“Process?” he echoes.
I squeeze my legs together, trying to catch my own clit on the seam of my pants.
I don’t even know what this is. A recoil from fear. A way to burn off adrenaline. A need for an exit. Either way, I want him to touch me. Just like that. Here and now.
I mean… what do we have to lose anyway?
Nathaniel’s eyes cut down.
“I see what you’re doing,” he murmurs.
He steps closer.
“What am I doing?” I ask.
“You’re rubbing your thighs.”
“Oh, really?” I look down then back at him. His eyes seem hungry now.
“Do you need help, Skye?” he asks.
My pussy clenches. God. I do.
“Tell me,” he presses.
His cock is already straining against his pants, thickening by the second. He doesn’t hide it. He stands there letting me look.
We have the same effect on each other, I suppose. But he doesn’t like being rushed, and we don’t have a lot of time. So what are we about to do, I wonder?
He exhales once, sharp through his nose.
“I want to touch myself because of you,” he says plainly. “Because you’re sitting there getting wet over tension and danger like a little slut. And you won’t even admit it.”
Like a little slut.
Nathaniel never called me names like that before.
My lips part.
I like it.
“Am I your little slut?” I echo.
“You sure look like it.”
I bite on my lower lip.
“Then do something about it,” I challenge, and I hate that my voice wobbles on the last word. “Do something about it, Nathaniel.”
He shakes his head slowly.
“Nope.”
He shakes his head slowly. “Nope.”
