I keep telling myself that I’m done with this; that I don’t want this or need this in my life, but then I get hit with a wave of jealousy, or he starts flirting with me, and it becomes almost impossible to resist him. He has no idea the power he has when his voice gets all deep and rumbly and sexy. It’s like a hypnotizing drug, and I can’t seem to stop falling for it every time he’s in my sphere for more than thirty seconds.
My phone dings with a text, pulling me out of my spiral. I need to stop thinking about this shit and go to bed. There’s just one huge problem, and it’s that even with all the spiraling and rationalizations happening, the memory of Marcus’s flirty smile when he so rudely shoved that full-blown image of me gagging on his cock into my head has my dick throbbing almost painfully, begging for a release.
I groan at the thought because it’s not like it’ll be the first time I’ll be giving in and touching myself to Marcus’s gorgeous fucking face taking up all the space in my head, but I keep trying not to do that before it becomes a habit. I grab my phone, hoping the text message will be a distraction, but as soon as I see the name, I flop backward onto my bed and scream into a pillow like the drama queen I am.
You forgot to say goodnight.
Of course, it’s him.I know it’s a simple text that offers nothing in inflection at all, and I don’t know if it’s my horny wound-up self, orsimply knowing Marcus like I do, to know it’s most likely the case, but I can practically hear the tease in his voice as I read it. I lift my phone in the air and respond to his text. If it takes me three tries to get through it because my fingers keep shaking and my body is practically quivering with arousal, then no one needs to ever know that but me.
Pretty sure we both said goodnight.
I point out, hoping it comes out as snarky rather than breathlessly needy. It’s not like he can hear the quiver in my voice, which would be audibly obvious if I spoke aloud right now.
Did we? I guess I’m still stuck on how pretty you look when you blush.
Jesus fucking Christ.How does he say that shit with a straight face? I can’t actually see his face, but there wasn’t a hint of hesitation or regret earlier when he let that word fly freely and uninhibitedly. I tried to steal the word from him because it makes every part of me light up. I’ve been called pretty before, a million times over, and it’s never made my entire self light up at the praise, making a huge part of me want to smile widely and strut in front of him while preening my feathers. I swear on my life, it’s a fucking sickness.
Goodnight, Marcus.
Goodnight, Pretty.
And fuck me sideways if the stupid flirty petname doesn’t come through with a sexy as fuck picture of him attached. He’s lying in bed, all snuggled up and relaxed for the night. The blue undertone of his dark brown skin stands out beautifully against his midnight-blue durag, which matches the satin pillow his head rests on. The primary focus of the picture is the beautiful smile adorning his gorgeous face, but there’s enough bare shoulders for me to assume he’s shirtless, and that’s not a thought that’s helping me at all.
I close my eyes and try really hard not to imagine what he looks like shirtless, nor remind myself that he’s only a couple of doors away, and especially try to ignore the small rationalization in the back of my head reminding me that all I need to do to get a taste of him is a simple kiss. A simple kiss that would beeverythingexcept simple, just because Iknowhow much I want it and how much I absolutely cannotgive in to it.
I need to get a hold of myself. I’ve missed kissing in general. Of course I have, but I never wanted to kiss a person enough to really feel torn about not giving in to the desire of it. But now? Oh fuck,now, he’s ruining years of fucking habits, and I haven’t even broken any of them yet.Yet…fucking dammit!
I open my eyes again, searching for a distraction, butcompletelyagainst my reasoning or will, I lift the phone to stare at his picture again. He’s so fucking sexy, just lying there like that, and I know he knows exactly what he was doing by sending that picture. It’s completely innocent and the hottest pic I’ve ever been sent in my life. A dick pic would have been less scandalous than this fucking full-on invitation of knowing that all I’d need to do to find out if he’s lying in his bed half-naked or fully naked isask, because we both know exactly where asking would lead to.
My imagination runs wild with images of what his body might look like right now. The toned dips and planes that I’m sure he has. As much as I’m opposed to jocks, I don’t think I’ve ever fully convinced myself that I’m not attracted to them. All that muscle and the grace they’ve gained from the coordination that’s so necessary in competitive sports. And while Marcus doesn’t flaunt it at all, he doesn’t hide it either. His clothes are always form-fitting enough to show off the muscle tone without being vulgar. Enough to offer substance to the imagination.
He’s a mixture of lean and muscle. Not as muscly as Tristan, but definitely enough definition to be scandalously titillating. I’ve always been a fiend for arms. I don’t know why; I’ve always thought defined arms are mouthwatering, and Marcus’s are damn near the most perfect set of arms I’ve ever seen. He’s just toned enough, his shouldersjust wide enough, his muscles the perfect size, the softness of his skin exactly how it should be, and those bulging veins that run along his forearms just enough to be tantalizing.
And don’t get me started on his hands. His skin is so soft, and yet firm at the same time, the most delectable combination of smooth and rough to feel his touch and sink straight into it. But mostly, it’s his fingers. Long, graceful. The way they curl around anything they’re holding, and the deep-seated longing to know what those fingers feel like inside of me, and to know what they taste like.
With that, my resolve is gone. Did I even put up a fight? It doesn’t really feel like I did, but at least I’m not going to run down the hall and bang his door down all hungry for kisses and desperate for his fingers. Mine will have to suffice. I drop the phone somewhere to the side of me. I don’t need it anymore; the image of him is seared into my head, along with the imagination that is so helpfully filling in the blanks.
I make quick work of my skirt and pants, and it’s a simple flurry of movements and shimmying to get them off before my hand blissfully wraps around my dick. The pressure is such a relief after trying, and failing miserably, to deny myself this. A breathy whimper escapes my throat, and my eyes flutter closed at the heady touch.
The sound of his voice assails me. His flirty insinuations and that deep, rumbly, sexy as fuck tone fill my head with sinful promises of what it’d feel like if I let him have his way. His name slips between my lips, and my synapses light up at the mere sound of it, even if it was spoken by me.
My hand doesn’t really need all that much guidance. My dick knows what it wants, and my hand knows how to give it that. In no time at all, I’ve got a good rhythm going, and pleasurable neurons are firing through every part of my body, but it’s not enough. The image of his fingers filling me is still up front and center in my brain, and I need that full feeling to really curb the neediness thrumming through me.
Too desperate and needy, I ignore the dildo that’s tucked away in my nightstand and thrust my fingers in my mouth deftly, slickingthem with my tongue and imagining what it would have felt like if I’d taken him up on his offer to gag me with his cock.
The mere thought of him down my throat, filling my mouth, histaste, hissmellpermeating every part of me, almost had me dropping to my knees in front of him right then and there. The images assault me again, amping up the desire that’s taking up every inch of space inside of my body, mind, and soul.
With fingers slicked and ready to go, I plant my feet on the edge of the bed and circle my hole, slowly inserting them one at a time. The sensations blaze through me, creating a space in my mind where the sensation is physical, the fuel that ignites my desires is in my imagination, and they immerse me somewhere between reality and fantasy. My touch becomeshisfingers, my heavy breathing changes to becomehis.
Part of me remembers that he’s not here to see this, and the walls are soundproof, so he can’t hear me. Instead of the breathy whisper of his name that I let out earlier, I give in to the more needy, more frenzied moan that’s been desperately crawling up my throat and waiting to be released since the moment I gave in to my arousal.
As reality bleeds into fantasy, I can practically hear Marcus’s flirty voice in my ear, telling me to moan for him, the tangible quality of it almost jarring, but instead of pulling me out of my senses, it plunges me deeper.
My stomach clenches with impending release; the heavy breathing from my imagination intertwines hazily with my own. As my peak draws near, there’s a quiver in my moans, and Marcus’s sexy ass voice tells me to come for him. The fantasy is so real that it has heat spiking up my spine, and I come almost violently into my hand.
A long, blissful, broken moan of ‘fuck’ punches its way out of me while enjoying the weightless suspension of satisfaction, and that’s when I hear it: a steady cadence of heavy breath that is most definitelynotmine, and most definitelynotimagined.
My heart leaps to my throat while my fingers fumble towards the sound and brush across my phone.Oh fuck, please tell me I closed outof the phone before I dropped it.Oh god, please no. My brain pleads with the universe while I pick up my phone.
