Page 72 of Slapshot Baby

She stares at me. Her expression cycles through disbelief, fury, then settles on determination.

Her hand drops between us, finds my cock hard and straining through my jeans.

Her squeeze is firm. “I’m going to prove to you that you’re more affected by my touch.”

The sensation is so sharp that my next breath comes out as a hiss through my teeth.

“That whole thing you just witnessed was a mistake,” she continues.

She unbuttons my jeans, pulls down the zipper. Her knuckles drag against the rigid length of me through my boxers. My teeth clench.

“It was just pent up frustration. I’m not affected by you in any way, but you can’t do without my touch.”

Her hand wraps around my cock and she strokes slowly while watching my face with intensity, like she's trying to take me apart one nerve ending at a time.

The first stroke steals my breath. The second buckles something in my spine. By the third, I've given up pretending I'm composed.

My hand braces against the door behind her. My forehead drops to her shoulder.

I can feel her heartbeat against my temple, rapid and fierce, and her breath is warm against my ear.

Her grip is firm, her rhythm steady. She twists her wrist at the top, circles the head with her thumb.

A grunt rips out of me, guttural and low, and I feel her smile against my hair.

"Look at me," she commands.

I look at her.

Her hand feels incredible and her eyes on me while she does it are even better.

Her pupils are blown wide, her lower lip caught between her teeth. There's a flush still burning across her chest from what I did to her.

She speeds up. Her grip tightens and her rhythm becomes relentless.

I groan, low and rough, and her lips curl at the sound. Every stroke pull sounds out of me I didn't know I could make.

My hips move against her hand. I can't stop them. The pleasure builds in heavy, crashing waves, pulling my muscles taut, winding every nerve to breaking point.

"You're enjoying this," she says.

"That's obvious."

"Say it."

"I'm enjoying your hand on my cock, Ava. Is that specific enough?"

Her rhythm falters for half a second, my bluntness catching her off guard. She recovers, squeezes harder, strokes faster.

She finds the spot just below the head and works it with her thumb in fast, slick circles that make my vision blur. My hand fists in her hair because my legs are forgetting how to work and the only anchor in the room is her.

"Let go," she whispers against my ear.

My whole frame locks, muscles seizing. I come hard across her hand and my own stomach, a groan wrenching out of me that fills the room.

She holds me through every pulse, her hand slowing but not stopping, drawing it out until my legs threaten to give.

I stay against her shoulder for several breaths. My pulse hammers in my ears. My body is wrecked in a way that has nothing to do with the physical release and everything to do with the woman who just watched me come undone without flinching.