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She scooted over next to him. He’d taken off his pants when he got back from the kitchen and removed his shirt, which meant she’d spent an hour in bed with sexy, nearly naked Winston eating popcorn and getting increasingly, inconveniently horny.
Inconvenient because horny-time had already come and gone for the evening.
Someone needed to tell this to her entire pudendal area.
It was just that she liked him. She really, really liked him—the way he smelled like expensive Englishman toiletries, how he looked at her, the stuff he told her, the sex things they’d done together, and how incredibly nice it was of him to bring her water and popcorn and not bother her when she’d worked herself into a stupid snit over fail-masturbation.
Also, he kept petting her. And she’d never put her shirt back on. His big man hand stroking up and down her back had felt soothing, and then just kind of pleasant, but after about forty-five minutes of on-and-off stroking his hand had started to stoke the fires, a little, and then a little more as she started thinking about Winston between her legs last night, and especially about Winston kneeling up over her, jerking himself, coming on her body.
Also, the boy and the girl in this movie were really cute together, and liked each other very much, and their tender romance should not have made her horny but kind of did.
She didn’t want to be wearing yoga pants under the sheets anymore. The pants material stuck to the sheets and ruched them up under her ass and in her crotch, which drove her crazy and made her want to wiggle against them, amplifying the whole horniness problem.
“I’m going to take off my pants,” some hind part of her brain announced through her mouth without consulting her front brain.
“You do that.”
So she had to.
Which left her in panties, sandwiched between four-thousand-thread-count sheets and Winston’s hard, hairy thigh, making it impossible to give the movie even the smallest portion of her attention. Because she just wanted to rub herself all over his thigh.
The hand farthest from Winston twitched on her thigh. She smoothed it up and down her flank as though maybe she could gentle herself like a nervous horse, but it felt too good, every little thigh hair standing to attention and sending a message to her brain suggesting, Hey, how about that mutual masturbation thing? That was kind of interesting, right?
Kind of interesting. Lying next to Winston, knowing his fingers were wrapped tight around himself, jerking himself like he’d jerked for her, listening to him breathe hard as she slid her fingers through her own slickness.
She just hadn’t been able to figure out how to stow her day, calm her mind down—it kept interrupting her, before, with thoughts of May and Ben and Mom and Dad and Matt and Elvira on a loop.
Which didn’t seem to be a problem anymore. All of those thoughts, those people, felt like they would keep until tomorrow.
Beneath the sheet, Allie’s hand snuck across her thigh and came to rest where she was pulsing and hot.
And then kept sneaking.
She pressed her cheek into Winston’s chest, bit her lip against the bolt of pleasure. She was more than ready, swollen and wet, sensitive. She moved her fingers over herself, fascinated, and Winston grunted.
“Are you—”
“Shh.”
She was. Oh, Jesus, she was, and he knew she was, and that made it better and worse, made it possible for her to sort of…wallow her face on his naked chest and slide her fingers into herself to the second knuckle.
“May I—”
“Yes.”
She rocked herself against him, finding the movement and pressure she liked best, finding herself kissing his chest, his nipple, his neck. It was much more exciting than she’d ever imagined, because it was just Winston, secret sexy Winston, the muscles in his neck and chest tightening, his body rocking, too, and all she had to do was look at his right arm jacking up and down to feel a deep, hot pulse rush through her whole body.
Their bodies got damp sliding against each other. Her wrist ached, and the back of her throat, from the way she was breathing and the wrenching little moans that kept escaping from somewhere inside her.
She rutted on him, shameless, fucking herself, watching him fuck himself, watching his arm and then throwing back the sheet to see his hand clenched, pressure-white from his grip, every muscle in his forearm taut.
“Shit,” she said. “Shit.”
They were all over each other, his free arm holding her tight against his body, her hips crashing into his, her hand wet and her clit hurting, just hurting, from the glorious and perfect sound of Winston abusing himself.
“Fuck.”
“Oh my God.”
