It’s not loud. Barely there. But it crawls up my spine like a warning.
I step closer.
Could be a fan. Could be a toothbrush. Could be none of my business.
I bring my hand to the doorknob and hesitate. I really do.
Then a sound. Barely audible, a breath or a whimper or a?—
All logic goes quiet.
I push the door slightly open. Slowly. Just to make my voice heard. Just to make sure she’s?—
“Mia?” I call softly.
No answer.
A flicker of panic slams into me. Irrational. Immediate.
Why isn’t she answering? What if something happened? What if she fainted? What if…
I don’t think. I move.
And my brain detonates.
Mia’s propped against a stack of pillows. A fucking masterpiece. Camisole bunched up, baring one perfect full breast. Flushed like sin itself. Her thick thighs are spread wide, her hand buried between them, and my cock hardens in an instant.
The toy in her grip whirs softly. Too soft for the devastation it’s causing.
Her chest heaves with each short breath. Her mouth hangs open, letting tiny moans run free.
My first observation is medical.
Pupils dilated. Skin flushed. Breathing shallow. Pelvis tilted to relieve pressure?—
Oh, no. Not pressure.
Pleasure.
Fuck.
Every part of me goes quiet.
Then feral. The sound that escapes my throat is not human.
She gasps when she sees me.
The toy wavers in her grip, not quite pulled away. Her lips part like she might apologize, but I don’t give her the chance to utter a word.
“Don’t stop. If you want me gone, say the word. But don’t stop. Not on my behalf.”
I watch the doubt swimming in her eyes, the toy missing its spot.
“Please,” I add, softer now. Begging.
I need her not to stop.
Need to watch her fall apart.
