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The noise slips from my lips, and Declan’s gaze moves to mine. I should look away, but I find I’m not able. I look instead down at his sex, at his hand around it, pumping smoothly up and down. I watch the way his fingers twist over the tip, tugging upward as his knees spread wider and his slack face tautens. I see a mist of sweat along his hairline. Now there’s color in his cheeks.
And I can’t look away.
I have never seen a sight like Declan pleasuring himself. As I look down at him, my knees tremble. His hand slows its frenzied pacing, squeezing his glans. His molten gaze licks up and down me.
“Come here, Finley.”
I kneel by his muscle-corded leg. My breath is caught in my throat. My pulse races as his eyes hold mine, and his hand squeezes the thick tip. I watch as he swallows, his eyes half closing. Then he lets himself go.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! The way it stands out, pointing proudly upward. It’s so…thick. My gaze traces a vein from tip to base. It’s a marvel—the perfection of it.
“Go on, Siren.” His voice rumbles. “Touch it.”
Heat zings through me—so much heat I’m sweating. For a moment, I can’t find the words. They stutter out. “I…can’t.”
“No?” His hand strokes, lazy, down the shaft, then spreads below to cup his swollen sac. He squeezes slightly, and I nearly die from desire.
Jesus himself help me, but I want to touch it. Heat suffuses my face, and I’m realize I’m now panting. I scoot back, but I can’t wrench my wanton gaze away. I watch his big hand play it like an instrument, his savvy fingers rolling his testes then tugging upward on the thick shaft.
“You don’t have to.” His eyes close. “Knowing you’re watching is enough.”
His fist grips beneath the flared tip, moving firm but gentle, up and down. His legs fall open wider. He does something with his hand—his thumb stroking over the tip in precisely such a way so I can see a tiny slit there at the top…and all around it, something wet and shiny.
I’m leashed by propriety, by twenty-seven years of Catholic learning. I am bridled by my past, by proper vows and chastity and even simple decency. He is not mine.
And yet…I know before I reach for him that I will. Not because I want to touch him but because I must.
Declan moans as my hand covers his. Then his hand moves over mine, urging my fingers around his sex. I gasp at the feel of it—so hot and soft. As he urges me to stroke, his silky skin glides over the core of steel beneath. He exhales, and I feel him swell in my grip.
Holy virgin…
I adjust my hand. My fingers can’t reach all the way around him, but I think the grip should be firm, as his own appeared to be. I glide toward the base, and then back up, and he moans.
“Fuck.”
I spread my fingers, rubbing over him with the skin between my thumb and forefinger until I reach the tip again. I trace the rim, and his hips jerk. “Siren.”
“Does it hurt?”
He shakes his head, but still, I feel unsure until he juts himself against my hand. His hands stroke up and down my arm, and I explo
re the little slit, prompting a ragged groan.
I’m afraid of hurting him, so I return to what his hands suggested: stroking up and down the marble-stiff length. When I reach the base this time, I hold it with one hand and use the other one to test the swollen sac below. I feel it draw up at my light touch. Between my own legs is a yawning ache.
Declan shifts his hips again. His hand presses my palm against those tender globes, as his other starts to pump his sex again. Gripping him gently, I join in. Can he feel my fingers shaking? I watch his hand, turning slightly as it grips the thick shaft underneath its tip.
I tickle his sac, and he groans. “Shit.”
I move with growing confidence up and down him, stroking the shaft as his thumb tweaks his tip. With his other hand, he grabs my arm.
“Finley.”
I stroke him again, and his hips lift off the floor.
“Squeeze harder.”
I do.
