When he realized what I was trying to do, he grabbed the table and did it for me. I had to position some stuff on the couch, but it wasn’t like there was a lack of space. The thing was massive.
Even still, I muttered, “You need more surfaces.”
“Noted.”
“I’m kidding. I need to make fewer notes.”
He didn’t look offended by my dig at his decorating choices, but he did look outraged by that. I just shook my head, not understanding his reaction but knowing it didn’t really matter because there would be no decrease. Electronic notes didn’t hit the same way physical ones did.
I was making good progress—okay,decentprogress—when Tripp’s hand began rubbing a short path up and down my calf. Then a little longer of a path. Then longer still.
It wasn’t a surprise.
According to Wren, everyone had a main love language they used to show affection—platonic or otherwise. She claimed mine was acts of service. If any of that stuff was true, then Tripp’s love language was definitely physical touch. Little grazes. Tight hugs. Frequent kisses.
Even in sleep, he kept the connection. When I’d woken during the night to pee, we’d been facing opposite directions, but he’d had his arm stretched back to rest on my ass.
With as lonely as he said his life was thanks to his career, it was no wonder he needed that.
I didn’t mind the leg massage as I worked, so I didn’t pay much attention. Not until I noticed that his trail was slowly increasing farther up my thigh. I tried to stay locked in, but my breath hitched each time he neared the top, only to retreat back. The arousal that had just waned grew into a bubbling anticipation that left me tense and on edge.
A little closer.
Almost.
Almost.
But each time, his large hand would skim back down without touching me where I needed him most.
After long, torturous minutes his palm finally covered my sex, and my breath whooshed out in a relieved rush. It took every last bit of willpower I had to not move. Or beg him to move. But I was a quick study, too. I knew that making demands would just extend his teasing.
It was the right decision, and my obedience was rewarded when he shifted my shorts and panties aside to slip his thumb into my soaked pussy.
I braced, waiting for more. Waiting for him to fill me with his thick fingers or order me to do something.
It didn’t happen. He simply flipped the page like he was reading the newspaper over coffee and not tormenting me.
“Sir,” I whispered, my hips undulating on their own accord.
He splayed his four available fingers across my pelvis and used them to still my motion. “Finish your assignment.”
“Take your thumb out of me,” I shot back on a frustrated growl.
His dark gaze turned to me, and he arched a menacing brow. “What was that?”
“Nothing,” I rushed out before pressing my lips together.
“That’s what I thought. You said you had to work, so work.” He returned to his script, and I returned to dying a little inside with each passing second.
Why did I make that stipulation?
When will I learn?
It didn’t take long for me to realize that it wasn’t like the leg thing. He wasn’t going to gradually amp up his motions until I found my release. He was happy to just sit there.
That twisted monster.
I took matters into my own hands. Shifting. Readjusting. Squeezing my muscles around him in the hopes that it would spur him on.
