Page 25 of Where the Snakes Sleep

Ryan

The worst part is I can’t remember how long I’ve been standing at the window.

How many helpless minutes I’ve spent with my forehead mashed to the glass, breath fogging a translucent oval onto the pane. Inside, I am buzzing, molten, stunned with a need so raw it aches.

I take two steps backward and almost trip over my own feet. My heart is racing in dramatic thumps, and my hands are shaking because they want to touch, touch, touch.

I’ve never been hungry like this before.

I strip off my pajamas and stand a moment in the middle of the room, catching my breath. My chest is rising so fast it makes me dizzy.

I thought bringing my favorite vibrator across the Atlantic was stupid and embarrassing, especially when the TSA agent fucking stared at it when checking my bag, but now I could fall on my knees with gratitude to my own foresight.

I fumble it from the pocket of my suitcase; it’s been living in there ever since my arrival in France, and collapse backward onto the bed with it.

I run my hands down my chest, a whimper slipping from my lips as I brush over my nipples.

My body doesn’t look like his; I’m not even sure he’d be attracted to it. But I can pretend, at least for a few minutes. I drag my palm up between my legs, and there’s a rush of wetness that surprises me because I haven’t been this drenched and horny for literal years.

I rub the toy against my folds, not yet turning it on, just warming myself up to the feel of the fake dick. God, it’s not even close to the size of that monster between Camille’s legs.

No, Camille’s cock has to be genuinely the largest I’ve ever seen. Granted, that pool is limited to Paul and porn, but some porn stars have some pretty massive dicks.

I can’t even imagine how a cock that size would feel going in. I bet it would hurt.

Is it fucked up that turns me on even more?

The fact that he’d make it fit?

Fuuuck.

When I finally turn the toy on, the vibration guns straight to my dick. I grip the sheets and muffle a gasp. My hips roll upward, greedy, needing more friction, more pressure, more of everything. The sound is louder than I remember—too loud—but I need it, I need it so bad.

I part myself and slide the vibrator in, slow at first, then faster, until I’m arching, toes curling, desperate and unashamed.

Camille’s face floats behind my eyelids, his gloriously plump lips parted, his eyelashes so thick and dark I just want to reach up and tug them between my teeth.

I fuck myself with the toy, imagining it’s Camille’s cock, huge and demanding and pounding into me, my hole slick and stretched so agonizedly wide around him.

I’m so wet the sheets are damp under my ass. I bite my knuckles to keep from moaning too loud. My other hand goes to my chest, pinching my nipples hard, wishing I was enough, but the ache is good; it skyrockets the need.

He’d pin me down if he ever touched me. That’s what I want—his hands holding my wrists, his teeth on my throat, his cock splitting me open, filling me so deep I go dumb. He’d be cruel about it, I think. Not mean, well, maybe a little, and relentless, with no patience for my shyness, only predatory hunger and heat and the kind of low, dangerous laugh that makes my stomach flip.

I fuck myself harder, chasing the feeling, my mind a blur of limbs and tongue and muscle and spit. I want to taste him, want to bite his shoulder, want to see him lose control for once. I want him to want me, not the way I am, but because of it, because I’m small and awkward and loud in bed, because I shake from wanting him, because I can barely look him in the eyes in daylight.

Oh God, I want him to take me. I want him to push me against that stupid fucking wall between our yards, rip down my pants, and shove himself inside of me so brutally that the village can hear my screams.

The orgasm comes so fast it almost scares me. My body locks, every muscle burning, and I moan into the pillow, riding the aftershocks as the toy buzzes inside me. I stay there, legs splayed, chest heaving, for a long, shivering minute. The ceiling spins a little.

When I can finally breathe, I peel the toy out and toss it on the bedspread. There’s cum all over my thighs, and I can feel the flush on my face, the trembling in my hands. It’s embarrassing how wrecked I am. It’s even worse that I immediately want to do it again.

I sit up and hug my knees to my chest, swiping a palm through the wetness between my legs. My body feels loose and electric, but my head is already filling with doubt. Would he even want to touch me if he knew? Would he flinch away?

I don’t even know what Camille’s type is, let alone his sexuality. I try to reconstruct the way he looks at me—if he’s even looked, really looked, at me. I remember the way his gaze sometimes snags on my bare collarbones, the taut lines of my neck when I swallow, but it’s always so brief I could be hallucinating it.

I flop backward onto my pillow, then picture him standing at the edge of my bed, eyes narrowed, and I feel a weird prickle of shame. Like I’m disgusting for wanting it so much. For not even being able to hide it.

If I’m honest, I want him to see it. I want him to look at the mess between my legs and know it’s his fault.