I wouldn’t be able to stomach the guilt of inviting it in, anyway.
So instead, I peer down at my naked, heaving body and begin the very long and tedious task of relieving it myself.
Running a fingertip over one of my hypersensitive, hardened nipples, I hiss loudly in the otherwise silent room. Around the pink nub is the indentation of two sharp canines, and I’m sore from whatever abuse my chest took while in the throes of nightmarish slumber.
Ignoring the mild pain, I tweak said nipple, feeling the deliciously violent streaks of sensation coursing through my veins in response.
Continuing that ministration, I run the fingertips of my other hand down my stomach, across my right hipbone, and onto the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
My cock has long since been hard, aching, and creating a puddle of arousal on my lower stomach. It twitches as my fingertips move closer, anticipating more release.
The amount of clear fluid leaking from my tip eliminates the need to use spit or find a form of lubricant as I wrap my fingers around the base, squeezing as I slowly drag my hand up to run my thumb over the slit.
“O-oh god,” I groan, hearing my own voice bounce off the walls and return to me in a beautiful, sensual melody.
I pump my hand faster—not concerned with any form of buildup—as my fingers, tweaking my nipples in intervals, begin to pinch and twist with more force, more strength.
My entire body is tensed, vibrating against the pure pleasure of the act.
What I wouldn’t give for these hands to belong to someone else. Someone living and breathing and invited in.
Maybe someone like Julian.
I can almost picture it.
His kind brown eyes staring down at me in soft admiration as he twists and pulls at my nipples. His long, thick fingers plunging in and out of my hole.
Playing out the fantasy, I remove my fingers from my chest and collect some of the arousal on my stomach, using it as lube as I slide my middle finger into my entrance.
I’m panting, sweating against the duvet as I imagine it. His soft, deep voice whispering obscene things in my ear, his hot breath against my face. Maybe he’d pull out his own dick and shove it into me, his face contorted with lust and the realization that he’sfinallyfucking me.
Julian wants to fuck me, right?
I slide in two more fingers at once, imagining them to be something much bigger, warmer, and more fulfilling.
“F-fuck! Ohmygod.” My voice ends on a whine, both hands moving faster in my desperation, my fingers curling and scraping my walls in an attempt to find my prostate.
Would Julian be gentle, or would he slam into me relentlessly? What form of pleasure does he dish out to his lovers? Is he even into men?
With the way he was eyeing my ass that night he dressed me, I’d guess yes.
I want to see it, his face as he’s overcome with pleasure. I want to smell him; what his musk smells like when he’s sweaty and turned on, unable to control himself. I would doanythingto be the reason that the precious professionalism and self-control he portrays snap.
What does his skin taste like? His come?
My fingers curl just right, slamming into my prostate as I thrust into myself. A loud moan echoes against the walls of my bedroom, and the sound spurs me on.
A few drags of my fingertips combined with a few pumps of my aching cock, and I’m climaxing.
“Yes, yes,oh fuck, yes,” I cry, my hips lifting from the bed as my release spurts out all over my stomach and chest.
My hand grips my leaking cock tighter, my fingers nailing my prostate, and I milk myself thoroughly.
And as I come down, with my own harsh panting filling the space around me, I remove my hands and stare at the mess I’ve made.
Then, I hear footsteps on the stairs outside my door.
“Young Master Atlas?” Hannah calls, her voice small and concerned. “Would you like me to bring you breakfast?”
