The cinema smells like old velvet and popcorn, and very faintly like his cedar and soap.
God, I’m so gone for this guy. I’m fucked.
He tosses a couple of pieces of popcorn into his mouth, his attention on the screen. I lean my head on his shoulder and whisper. “This is really nice, Alex.”
“Shh.” His lips curl up but he doesn’t look away from the flickering screen. “Watch the movie.”
I roll my eyes but comply, happy to share this experience with him. Somewhere around the forty-minute mark, though, his hand moves from my shoulder to my thigh.
“Alex!” I murmur.
"Eyes on the film," he says, very quietly, and his fingers slide to my inner thigh.
"We're literally the only people in this building," I hiss.
"Doesn't matter." His mouth is at my ear. "Be my good girl."
And oh, how I desperately want to be that.
The thing about Alex Thorne is that he takes his time. He's been doing this all summer and I still haven't fully calibrated to it. His fingers trace slow circles on my inner thigh, moving toward where I want them and then retreating, over and over, until I'm squirming in my seat and gripping the armrest just to have something to hold onto.
He keeps his eyes on the screen and occasionally comments on the film like he's not currently dismantling my entire nervous system. “Interesting practical effects for 1954.” His fingers drift higher. “The metaphor for nuclear anxiety is pretty on the nose.” I bite down on my lip hard enough to feel it.
“You okay over there, Freckles?” He’s wearing that smirk again.
"You're the worst," I breathe.
"You're doing so well," he murmurs. My pussy throbs and I gasp. “You like that, hmm?” he asks. “Praise seems to turn you on. You like being my good girl.”
“Fuck, Alex.”
“I love how you say my name.” His fingers finally find the fabric of my underwear and he goes very still for a moment, just resting his hand there, feeling the heat of me through the thin cotton. Feeling how wet I am. It’s mortifying how he’s trained my body to want him. I groan and he makes a low noise of approval against my ear.
"You’re so hot and ready for me, aren’t you?"
"Don't," I beg. “Please, Alex.”
"Don't what?" His fingers move slowly, tracing my seam through the wet fabric, and my hips shift toward him against my will. "I haven't done anything yet."
He's right, and it's infuriating. I grip his knee hard enough that he exhales. He takes his time with this too, rubbing slow circles through the fabric. The wet spot on my panties grows and grows, but I'm past caring about dignity and just need him to do something about it. When he finally shoves the fabric aside, I have to stifle my moan.
He strokes me slowly, bottom to top, just once, like he's taking inventory. I stop breathing entirely.
"Tell me what you want," he says quietly. His voice is completely steady, which is deeply unfair.
"You know what I want."
"Tell me anyway."
"Alex." I turn my head toward him, and he's watching the screen like he's genuinely interested in the film. His two fingers are resting against me without moving. Just there, just waiting. "Please?"
"Please what? Please finger fuck me, Alex? Please make me come?”
My entire body flushes. “Please… please finger fuck me.”
“Say the entire thing.” He glances at me, his blue eyes dark with lust. “Say my name.”
I sound vaguely irritable when I huff, “Please finger fuck me,Alex.”
