Page 57 of Go, Rogue

“Well,” her eyes glint. “Yours is the handsomest… what should I call it?”

“Cock will do,” he says and allows himself one more stroke.

“Well, then. Yours is the handsomest cock I’ve ever seen.”

“‘Tis the only cock you’ve ever seen, I’d warrant.”

“That is true. Andrew?”

“Yes, lass?”

“What do you call… me? If yours is a cock, what is mine? The real words please. No euphemisms.”

She leans back on her elbows and spreads her legs so he can see her. A groan escapes his lips at the sight of her, pink and swollen with need already. Glistening as the tip of his cock is glistening. As if they’re made for each other—these two particular puzzle pieces ready to slip together and interlock. He feels his hips buck involuntarily.

“That,” he says, “is the most beautiful quim I’ve ever seen.”

“Quim? That’s what you call it?”

She slides her hand down and rests it there but she doesn’t move, just lightly presses into herself. His hips buck again into the air. She makes a little noise, a kind of mewling sound that sets his blood on fire.

“There are other names. Lady’s garden, cunt, cunny. How do you touch your cunny when you’re alone at night?”

Her fingers begin to move in a gentle circular motion. “Like this,” she says.

“Look at me, lass.”

She turns her blue eyes to his and they lock into each other.

He clasps his balls and groans, before moving his hand back to his cock. Their eyes never leave each other as their hands begin to move. The air around them turns heavy with the scent of arousal. He tries to savor it as the pleasure builds within him, tries to make each motion long and slow, but he’s already too close to peaking. His hips are already moving as if he’s inside her. He squeezes himself again, hard.

“Why do you do that?” she asks. “Squeeze yourself?”

“Because I’ve waited six long months for this, lass. And I’m damn well going to make it last as long as I can.”

He gives his tip a little twist and grunts at the sheer bloody pleasure of it. At having her watch him.

“You like that,” she says. “A twist at the tip. You close your eyes when you do it.”

“Aye, I do. Will you show me what you like? Where you put your fingers to give yourself the most pleasure.”

She bites her lip and he sees her flush, pink with embarrassment or desire or some mixture of both. Pink on her cheeks, pink on her quim. He’s never loved pink before the way he loves it now.

“I take my finger,” she says and slips it up inside her. “And I put it here.”

“Aye,” he grips himself again. He can’t stop it. Can’t help it. “Show me, Menace, what you desire.”

“Catherine,” she says. “Call me Catherine.”

“Aye.” Another hard stroke of his length and he’s leaking and trembling and grunting. “Show me, Catherine. Please, sweetheart.”

“Like this,” she says and she arches her back. Her fingers moving now to the outside, where he knows that little sensitive bud lies. He wants to touch it for her. He wants to suck on it and hear her noises and watch her see stars.

He wants to plunge himself into her, but he doesn’t. And this is enough. It’s almost too much, the shared intensity of watching each other. Of bringing each other to the peak of pleasure without ever touching one another. It’s beyond any other sexual experience he’s ever had.

“Are ye wet?” he asks, his voice straining. He can see the glisten on her fingertips.

“Yes,” she whispers, her eyes moving between his face and his hand.