Christ.
She goes back to her blouse. Works the buttons halfway down with unsteady fingers, and then—instead of reachingbehind for the clasp—she hooks her thumbs into the cups of her bra and drags it up and over.
Her breasts spill free.
Heavy. Full. They settle against her ribs with a soft weight that empties my skull of every thought I've ever had. Her nipples are peaked and dark, tightening in the trailer's cool air while I stare, and my cock jerks in my fist so hard I have to let go of it entirely. I grab my balls instead and squeeze, teeth clenched.
“Rowe?” she whispers.
“Give me a second.” The words come out strangled. “You almost ended it right there.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. A smile fights its way through the blush, small and stunned, like no one's ever told her that her body could end a man.
I'm going to have words with every person who never told her. Right before I kill them.
Her hand drifts down her stomach. She hesitates at the waistband of her underwear, then settles over the top of the cotton instead—shy about it, her fingers finding her clit through the fabric and starting slow, tight circles. Her breath catches on the first one. Her knees fall open an inch wider on the bench.
I could ask her for more. Ask her to pull the cotton aside, show me everything. The want is a living thing.
I don't ask.
Because she chose the underwear the way I choose the distance, and I know exactly what it costs to give someone this much and keep one thin layer for yourself.
“You're perfect,” I tell her instead. My fist closes back around my cock, slower now, matching the rhythm of her hand. “You know that? Sitting there like that. I want you so fucking bad it's been keeping me up.”
Her circles falter, then speed up. “You—really?”
“Last night.” The confession scrapes out of me. She's bare-chested on my bench with her hand between her legs. She's earned every secret I have. “I came so hard thinking about you I couldn't see. Twice. Said your name out loud in the dark like you could hear me.”
“Oh my god.” Her hips rock up into her own fingers. Her breasts sway with the movement and I have to squeeze the base of my cock again. “What—” She swallows. Her voice comes out breathy and cracked. “What do you think about? When you?—”
“You sure you want to know?”
“Yes.”
“Your mouth.” I watch the words land, watch her lips part. “Most of the time it's your mouth. Fucking it. Your lips stretched around me, your eyes looking up while I—” I break off, jaw tight. “Slow at first. Then not slow.”
The flush pours down her throat, over her chest, all the way to the soft undersides of her breasts. She turns pink from hairline to navel, and her hand between her thighs never stops moving.
“I can't—” she starts. Stops. Her eyes squeeze shut, then open, and there's something building behind them, some decision assembling itself. “You can't be touched. But if I couldn't touch you. If there was—” She wets her lips. “Like a glory hole. I could kneel on the other side and you could just—and I'd never—my hands would never?—”
“Fuck.”
My hand freezes on my cock. Has to. My whole body locks up, thighs shaking, because the picture she just built detonates behind my eyes—her mouth waiting for me in the dark, warm and wet and willing, no hands, no skin,nothing but the one place I want to be in—and I'm two strokes from ruining this before she finishes.
“Too much?” she whispers.
“Toogood.” I'm panting. Actually panting, like I've run the length of the midway. “You can't say things like that when I'm this close. You'll kill me.”
“Sorry.” She doesn't sound sorry. She sounds drunk on it, her fingers flying faster over the soaked cotton, her breath coming in little hitches now, her thighs starting to tremble. “Rowe. Rowe, I'm—I'm close. I'm really close.”
So am I. I've been close since her jeans hit the floor.
“Wren.” Her name comes out wrecked. “Can I—” I make myself say it. All of it. “Can I come on your breasts? I won't touch you. I just want—I want to see it on you.”
Her teeth sink into her bottom lip.
She nods.
