Page 8

The second your scent hit me, I was right back in your bedroom, remembering every tiny movement you made and every sound you tried to swallow. I could picture the way you shifted, the way your head tipped back when whatever you were doing to your pussy finally got good enough that you forgot to be quiet for a second.

And I was holding the fucking underwear you'd been wearing through all of it.

They're mine now, apparently.

Yeah, I know, I'm getting worse. I don't even particularly care anymore.

I wrapped the black lace around my cock and stopped pretending I was going to do anything else with them.

The fabric was soft in a way that felt almost obscene, delicate and dark against my skin, and I had to close my hand slowly because I didn't want to rush it. Not yet. My cock was already hard and aching before I'd even started, had been since I picked them up off the table again and stopped fighting with myself about it, and the first slow drag of the lace made my breath leave me in a way that would have been embarrassing if there was anybody here to witness it.

There wasn't. There was only me and the black lace and the image of you that I cannot get out of my fucking head.

I kept my grip loose at first, let myself feel every soft ridge of the fabric moving against me while I stared at the ceiling and thought about you lying on that bed with your hand beneath this exact lace. My jaw was tight. My other hand pressed flat against the mattress because I needed something to push against, something solid, while everything else felt like it was dissolving into want and heat and you.

I closed my eyes and thought about the sounds you made that night. The ones you tried to swallow, the ones that escaped anyway, that rough little exhale you let out right before you turned your face into the pillow because even alone you couldn't let yourself be loud. I wanted the sounds you weren't making. The ones you'd been keeping back, pressing down, politely swallowing like they were too much to let out into the air.

I tightened my grip on my cock as I wondered what sounds you would make if it was my cock rubbing against your pussy instead of your fingers. Whether you'd still try to muffle yourself. Whether that small, bitten-off noise would turn into something longer and less controlled once you realized I wasn't going to let you hide it. I thought about the slick heat of you, how warm you'd feel, how soft, the way your hips would shift trying to get more of exactly what I was giving you while your mouth finally opened and gave me something real.

My hand moved faster as I thought about what it would feel like if it was your pussy squeezing my cock instead of my hand. I thought about that until my whole body felt on edge. The lace kept moving against me and I kept my eyes shut and thought about the way you'd feel wrapped around me, warm and slick and tight enough that I'd have to stop for a second just to keep my head, just to hold onto one last shred of something resembling control before I lost it completely.

I don't think I'd manage it.

I think you'd feel so fucking good that the control would go in the first ten seconds and I'd stop being careful or patient or anything except entirely focused on fucking you deeper, on hearing whatever sound that dragged out of you, on feeling your body adjust around mine while your hands grabbed whatever part of me you could reach.

Your hips tilting up to meet mine, your thighs parting, that warm slick heat of you squeezing my cock over and over again. Your nails digging into my back, my shoulders, wherever you could reach, and your mouth finally open and making sounds you'd never let yourself make alone. Real sounds, honest sounds, the ones you'd been sitting on for years because somewhere along the way you'd decided wanting too loudly was the same as wanting too much.

The thought of you taking all of me, every inch buried so deep inside you that neither of us could think straight, cracked through whatever was left of my restraint.

I came so fucking hard my vision went white, gorgeous, hard enough that for a few seconds afterward I just sat there with my head tipped back and your underwear still clenched in my hand. Wondering when exactly my life had reached the point where stealing a woman's dirty black lace and getting myself off with it felt perfectly fucking reasonable.

I still didn't put them down.

That's probably the part that says the most about how far gone I am.

I sat there afterward running my thumb over the lace, thinking about the fact that you'd eventually go looking for them and realize exactly which pair was missing. I knew you'd remember the night immediately because I remembered every fucking second of it, and by then I was almost as obsessed with the idea of you finding out as I had been with taking them in the first place.

I thought about returning them before you noticed, but apparently whatever tiny piece of decency suggested that didn't have enough votes, so I kept them.

I watched you dig through the basket looking for them, then went through it again because apparently black lace might magically reappear if you looked irritated enough. After that you checked the bedroom, the bathroom and finally the laundry basket again before sitting down on the edge of the bed with it between your feet.

Then you smiled.

A small smile with only a little guilt in it. But it was completely fucking real.

Sweetheart, that smile ruined me worse than the underwear did.

Because you knew.

Maybe not every detail, yet, but enough.

You knew exactly why I had taken that particular pair, and instead of immediately calling your friend or the detective, you sat there thinking about it with that tiny smile trying to come out at the corner of your mouth.

I'm not going to tell you what that means because you're more than capable of working your own feelings out, and I've already spent too much time acting like I know every thought that crosses your mind. What I will tell you is that I wanted to see inside your head right then so fucking badly I almost gave myself a headache.

That black lace is sitting beside me while I write this, because apparently I have no intention of becoming normal about this.

But I do want you to do something simple for me.