Her eyes follow the spit before locking right back on my hand.
“I could make you do this,” I whisper.
“You could,” she agrees. Was that a hint of desire in her voice or have I fully lost my mind?
I have to accept that it’s the latter. She doesn’t want me doing this to myself much less forcing her to do it.
I made a vow to myself last night when I couldn’t sleep that I wasn’t going to touch her, that I wasn’t going to force her to touch me. But as pleasurable as this is, it also doesn’t feel like enough.
One of the main reasons I’m not making her do this is because I’m afraid that even with her hands on me, it still wouldn’t be enough.
I know myself enough to know that I can take everything from her. I could leave her with nothing and I still wouldn’t have met my expectations. It’s not that I feel that she wouldn’t be good at it. I know I would have come three times already if it were her hand instead of mine.
There’s a desperation inside of me I’ve never felt before and as much as I want to explore that, there’s a part of me that can’t imagine hurting her any more than I’ve already done.
I know she’d never view my restraint as the gift that it is and that makes me want to apologize. I’m not a man who apologizes to anyone. I don’t make excuses.
I stroke up my shaft again, the threat of an orgasm settling deep in my balls and drawing them closer to my body. I spread my legs a little but it provides no relief. I can’t imagine slowing my hand, despite not being even close to this ending.
A wave of goosebumps washes over her skin, her nipples pebbling right before my eyes. If I hadn’t climbed underneath the covers because I felt the chill in the air, I could possibly convince myself that it’s arousal. I could let myself believe that it’s desire that’s making her body react that way, but I know better.
She moves her body, shifting just the slightest amount, the muscles in her thighs clenching.
There’s no way she could deny how she feels as the top of her breasts turn pink.
She is aroused and I moan at the idea of knowing that she has to be glistening between her legs.
That desperate need to taste her consumes me. If I were the monster I imagine she truly believes that I am, I would pounce on her. I would spread those slender thighs of hers and bury my face in the apex of them.
If she thought the orgasm she gave herself in the shower earlier was incredible, the woman has no idea how good I could make her feel.
I bite my lip, because if I open my mouth, I’m going to insist on seeing it. Instead, I let my eyes flutter closed. I let my imagination take over, and that version of Raya, the version I’ll never see in real life, leans back and does it without being prompted.
She spreads her thighs and uses the index fingers on both hands to open herself up for me. That’s when I nearly lose control. “Jesus, what a pretty pussy,” I whisper, my thoughts turning into real words. But I can’t stop now. I can’t pump the brakes. This train is close to derailing, and the crash is going to be epic.
She whimpers in my mind as the images unfold. I’m desperate for the taste of her on my lips, aching to know what her flesh against mine feels like. I’m driven insane by thoughts of sliding my cock inside of her.
The fantasy of her begging for more in my mind is what sets me off. My legs tense exactly the way hers did in the shower, and I don’t open my eyes until the very last rope of cum hits my chest.
When I manage to open them again, she’s staring down at me, her gaze locked on the cum marking my skin.
True to form, she doesn’t say a word, but she also doesn’t look away. I lie there for a long moment, just basking in the glow of such a powerful orgasm. Doing this in front of her is nothing like doing it to myself in the shower when the urge strikes.
I don’t say a word as I climb off the bed and head into the bathroom. My shower is quick, effective, cool in temperature, due to the flush of heat still on my skin.
The towel is warm as expected when I pull it from the rack and I’m quick to dry my body and go back into the bedroom.
Her eyes track me across the room. They follow me like they always do.
I find that I love her attention but it also confuses me. That reaction I have to her is just one more thing to add to the list of things that surprises me where she’s concerned.
Before Raya, I hated when people looked at me. I hated feeling tracked and observed. I wanted to be a ghost in the shadows, not someone on display.
We’re both silent when I climb back into the bed. I’m the one to reach for the covers, not her, and I hide a smile when I realize that she never pulled the blanket back up over herself during my shower. She also didn’t put the borrowed shirt on last night after I came on her.
“I’m not going to rape you,” I confess. “You don’t have to be afraid of that from me.”
Her eyes watch mine for a long moment and I can tell she’s trying to determine whether I’m lying or not.