Total pages in book: 767
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 732023 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 3660(@200wpm)___ 2928(@250wpm)___ 2440(@300wpm)
She tiptoes into my room around midnight. I wake up wrapped around her small body, her soft hair in my hands, my nose pressed to her skin, my dick aching from being hard for hours with no relief. It’s an exquisite torture, wrong on every level, and I never want it to end.
On the fifth night I wake to find her legs wrapped around me, our bodies aligned in the most carnal way, my dick throbbing against the heat it can feel through the fabric of my briefs and her panties. Bad enough that I gave in and kissed her in that club. I’m not going to thrust against her until she comes. I’m not, I’m not. I repeat the words until they become a chant, a plea to a God I never believed in.
Carefully I pull her limbs away from me, untangling our bodies, until she clasps a pillow close and settles back into sleep. Then I cross the large bedroom to the bathroom and close the door. Christ.
Thinking of tactical formations isn’t going to help. The only thing that will bring down this erection is to jack off. I turn on the shower and set it to scalding hot.
Steam coats the glass.
I step inside and grasp my dick, which aches like a motherfucker. It doesn’t want the calluses on my palm or the rough, angry tugs. It wants to be encased in soft, wet velvet.
My eyes fall shut, and I imagine that she’s in the shower with me, her skin slippery, droplets running down her breasts. I would catch them as I suck on her nipples. I would drink the warm water in open mouthed kisses along the flat of her stomach. It would taste like nothing, nothing at all, until I’d slide my tongue between her legs, finding salt and desire.
Water trails down my body, and I imagine that it’s her tongue, finding the dips and rises of my muscles. She would get on her knees in front of me and lick her pink lips.
A little sound makes my eyes fly open.
Samantha stands in the doorway to the bedroom, her mouth parted in surprise, her eyes wide in unmistakable arousal. There’s enough steam coating the glass to make her hazy, as if she isn’t quite real, the sweetest dream I’ve ever had. I should stop, I should absolutely stop touching myself, stop fucking myself. Instead I squeeze hard from the base to the tip, punishing myself for how good it feels.
At the very least I expect her to flee the room, but she stands there, watching me with hunger in her dark gaze, with an innocent curiosity that makes my blood run hot.
And then she takes a step closer.
I plant my hand on the cool tile and use the other one to pump my dick. And then I still my fist, moving my hips instead, thrusting the way I want to do inside her body. I would hold her head as the water came down around us, using her sweet mouth until I came in a blinding rush. My cum would fill her mouth, and she would have no choice but to swallow it down. I’d catch clear water on my fingertips and feed it to her to wash me down. Then I’d reach down between her legs, make her climax as she knelt on the smooth tile of the shower, legs splayed and useless, arms clinging to my leg in surrender, the salt of my sex still on her tongue.
Every thought is in my eyes as I watch her, and she seems to know it—if not the exact contents, at least the spirit of it. She takes another step closer, and then another, until the only thing between us is the steamed glass of the shower door.
She puts her hand on it, her palm toward me, fingers spread.
I touch her hand through the glass, as if I can feel her.
My forehead rests on the glass, needing the connection, every part of me straining to break through the tempered glass and touch her, how soft she would be, how warm, as I come with a shout of forbidden pleasure, my whole body convulsing, hips fucking the air, my cock in agony as it comes in the warm, humid air instead of her tight cunt.
My head bows as I catch my breath, panting like an animal in the aftermath.
When I look up again, she’s gone. The doorway is dark. I can almost believe that she was part of my fantasy, not a real person who watched me come, except for the small handprint breaking up the steam on the other side of the glass.
God, she’s probably run back to her room—and no wonder. I should never have kept touching myself when she walked in. Then again this is my bathroom. My shower. The lines between right and wrong have blurred so much that I don’t know where to begin.