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‘I’m not, Jack. I think about you. I think about all the things we could do together and I’m going crazy. I need you to tell me what to do.’
He takes a long drink of the wine, pondering, eyeing me from head to toe. ‘You like playing games with me.’
‘I love that you see it that way. You know, if we play this game together, we both win...’
His icy blue eyes darken and he sucks in his breath. He holds my gaze like it’s a precious vase, and if I look away, it will crash at our feet and shatter into a million tiny pieces. But I’m fed up.I am frustrated. I need more from this arrangement, or whatever it is we’re calling it these days—my body is demanding it of me. ‘Tell me what to do,’ I press.
He lets out a long, deep sigh. Like a man defeated. Has that metaphorical vase crashed to the floor yet? When he speaks, though, it is quiet and authoritative. ‘If we do this, be warned—I’m not like the other guys you’ve been with. Are you okay with that?’
His words flutter through my insides, like over-excited butterflies. ‘Do I seem like other girls to you?’ I whisper back.
He nods, understanding. There’s always been a quiet, unspoken understanding between the two of us, because ultimately we’re both outsiders—neither one of us fits neatly into any sort of box. ‘In that case, I need you to sit your pretty, little arse back down in that chair over there.’
Was that all? I tried to hide my disappointment. Sit back down and wait while he paints me again—
‘I want to watch you touch yourself.’
My breath quickens and my nipples tighten into hard buds when I hear his words.
There’s the Jack I knew was hiding in there.
I draw in a shaky breath and do exactly as he bids me, walking back to the wicker chair, sitting back down within the soft blanket, and flinging my hair back over my shoulder. Was this really going to happen? Was he still going to paint?
As if I’d asked the question out loud, he throws down his brushes and drags another identical wicker chair until it is about three or four feet away from mine. I watch his every movement with rapt fascination. He undoes the top button of his trousers and eases himself into the chair, his eyes on me the whole time. His shirt is open at the top and I can see the hint of dark, masculine hair underneath.
‘Are you comfortable?’ he asks me.
I nod, laser-focused on the sight of him. He dominates the chair, both arms out, legs spread wide, trousers open at the top, shirt pulled tightly across his chest.
‘Then you may begin,’ he commands.
Gingerly I touch my breasts one at a time.
‘Not there.’
I slide my hands further down my stomach, caressing my hips and upper thighs.
‘Not there.’
Trembling, I move my hand until I cup myself, one finger sliding along my pulsating, wet slick.
He growls and nods approvingly. ‘Yes, just like that. Look at me when you touch yourself.’
Every naughty, little thing he says sends me closer and closer to the edge. I feel absolutely frantic like this, staring back him while he whispers dirty words of encouragement.
‘Faster,’ he says. ‘Deeper,’ he encourages. ‘I could sit here for hours watching you like this, pleasuring yourself.’
I take a finger and place it inside my mouth.
He groans loudly, the deep baritone echoing off the walls. ‘What are youdoingto me?!’
I want to shout,come over here and finish me off, but I don’t. It doesn’t seem right, somehow. I’m enjoying his gaze too much, I always have. Instead, I say, ‘I want to see you. Take it out,’ I nod towards the top of his trousers. ‘Stroke it. I want us to finish together.’ I can’t believe he ponders what I say for a moment. Most guys would never have lasted this long. Most guys wouldn’t have had the balls or the self-restraint to sit across from me like Jack is doing. He eases his trousers down slightly and slips his cock out, fisting it. ‘Let me see,’ I say.
He lets go and I stare at him, marvelling at his size, not even noticing I’m licking my lips as I stare at his long, hard length.
‘Jesus, look at you, Leyna. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. You’re making me fucking wild.’
This is the most agonising experience I’ve ever been through. My body itches to walk over and sit on him, to straddle him, anything. But instead, I focus on myself, staring at him the entire time. My movements quicken and, as though on cue, I can feel my body accelerating, everything inside tightening up, coiling like a spring deep in my core. I start to make short, whimpering noises. I maintain eye contact with him the whole time and it’s like it amplifies all my senses. Every sensation feels over the top, beyond anything I’m used to feeling.
