WREN
I shiverwhen he grabs hold of my butt and hauls me up, then tosses me onto the bed as if I weigh nothing. I land with a bounce on the mattress, bracing my hands on it, so I won’t tip over, my knees bent. He stands at the foot of the bed, his gaze only for me, and I position myself in a more provocative pose, clamping my knees together before I slowly part them.
His gaze grows hot as he stares at the spot between my legs, and I can feel my panties grow damper and damper the longer he looks.
“You are a bad girl,” he murmurs. “I knew I could bring it out in you.”
I spread my legs as far as they can go, my feet planted firmly on the bed. “You like it?”
“I fucking love it.” His gaze turns molten. “Slip your hand in your panties.”
Shock courses through me. “Really?” I squeak.
He nods. “Show me what you like.”
“But…you won’t be able to see where I’m touching myself.” I can’t even believe I said that. Or that I’m contemplating actually doing it.
“I like the idea of watching you touch yourself, your hand busy beneath the panties. And I can see. The fabric is sheer.”
Oh. That’s right.
Taking a deep breath, I rest my hand against my stomach, right above the top of my panties. I trace the thin band with my index finger, sliding it back and forth. The way he watches me, the way I’m teasing myself, already has my breathing coming faster. My heart pumping harder.
“Do it, Wren,” he demands, and my fingers slip beneath the thin fabric, sliding through my pubic hair. Going deeper, until I brush my clit.
I hiss in a breath, closing my eyes.
“Look at me,” he says, and I flash my eyes open once more, held captive by him. “Start stroking.”
I do as he says, sliding my fingers up and down, nice and slow, gathering up all the wetness. A whimper leaves me when I flick my clit, and then I’m sliding back down, teasing my entrance, my middle finger pushing inside, just barely.
“Are you fucking yourself with your fingers?” he asks, his voice rough.
“Not really.”
“Do you want to?”
“I’d rather it was your fingers,” I admit, the need to be truthful overwhelming any bit of embarrassment I might feel at making the confession.
My touch feels good, especially with the way he’s watching me.
But it would feel even better if it was his hand between my legs. His fingers stroking me.
“Fuck, you’re hot.” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe it. “I need you to beg.”
I frown. “Beg?”
He nods. “Beg for my fingers, Birdy. Tell me how much you want me.”
“I want you so bad,” I whimper, all the shame I’ve ever experienced when it comes to this boy leaving me so rapidly, I feel weak. “Please, Crew. Touch me.”
He’s on the bed in an instant, his jeans half undone, revealing his navel and that intriguing dark path of hair that disappears into his blue boxer briefs. His erection strains against the cotton as if it’s trying to break free, and unable to help myself, I lean forward and reach out, trailing my fingers down the front of him.
Crew bites back a groan, thrusting his face in mine before he kisses me as if he’s a starving man, and I’m the only one who can ever satisfy him. His tongue thrusts rhythmically against mine, his fingers circling around my wrist and yanking my hand out from under my panties, replacing it with his own.
His touch is rough, making me cry out, but I don’t mind. He searches and thrusts, his thumb pressing against my clit at the same time he slips a finger inside my body. His finger matches the rhythm of his tongue, in and out at a rapid pace, and I cry out against his lips, the orgasm already drawing closer.
“You like that?” he whispers against my lips, and I nod, frantic. “Fuck my hand, Wren. Do it.”