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He played her body like a golden fiddle, ruthless in his quest to prove that he could make her come, fully clothed, barely skimming the surface of his amorous arsenal. That edge, the spike of superiority in him, as he bent her to his will made everything a little bit hotter. She couldn’t pull enough oxygen into her lungs. Clara didn’t understand—couldn’t even follow—his movements as they blurred together into a single heavy throb in her pussy.
For as varied as his touches had been earlier, they were constant, unflinching now. Clara knew she had soaked through her panties at this point. She didn’t care. Somewhere along the line, Josh had stripped her of every ounce of shame and replaced it with raw desire.
She hovered on the precipice of orgasm, her body so sensitized that every moment, every movement, almost but not quite sent her over the edge. The louder she got, the firmer Josh made his strokes, but it was never enough.
Still, even as the minutes continued to tick by, Josh never rushed her along to “get to the good part.” He never tried to take advantage of her compromised state to barter for services-in-kind. Everything he did, he did for her to enjoy, to savor, until she couldn’t survive another second on the edge.
“Please,” Clara choked out.
Josh slowed the motions of his hand. “What do you need?”
They both knew the answer, but saying it out loud? She shook her head.
The bastard took his hand away entirely. All that pleasure—just paused.
Clara opened her eyes to find Josh leaning back on his heels. He would have looked ready to discuss the evening news, if not for his dilated pupils and the strain beneath his belt.
“I want to come, you ass,” she said slowly through her teeth.
Josh smiled. “Oh. Do you? Why didn’t you say something sooner?”
Clara groaned in frustration and closed her eyes again, blocking out his stupid, smug face. She tried to picture Everett. Hoping that a familiar fantasy carved into the grooves of her brain would do the job. She imagined running her hands through dark hair, Everett’s eyes tracing her mouth. But for some reason, the images barely elicited a flutter in her belly.
Tears of frustration formed at the corners of her eyes as Josh’s voice racked over her frenzied flesh. “Open your eyes again and I’ll give you what you want.”
Against her better judgment, she complied.
His easy swagger had faded. There was nothing but conviction and a hint of possession on his face now. She’d never realized that eye contact could cause hyperventilation.
This interaction might be all about her body, her pleasure, but here was Josh’s consolation. Clara could never deny the identity of the man who made her whimper. She would know exactly who brought her over the edge.
“Wild looks good on you,” Josh said, and this time when he put his hands on her he didn’t hold back. The difference in tempo and technique was staggering. He’d been playing with her before. Pulling his punches. And it was obvious why. No one, especially a novice like her, could last against an onslaught of pleasure like this. Clara had no power in that moment, not even an ounce of the control that she considered her constant companion. Nothing mattered anymore, nothing but the way he let her fall apart. All the tension evaporated from her limbs as she shook in his arms.
After a few moments, as the sensations slowly began to fade, Josh cleared his throat and eased her thighs closed. But the passion in his touch was gone. His face had turned impassive, more like a man shutting the trunk of his car than a lover drawing out aftershocks.
“Well, that’s done then.”
Clara tried to gather her bearings. Right. Josh. Orgasm. Her and Josh. Orgasm. She’d . . . Oh dear.
“I’m sorry,” she said automatically as she wiped her hand across her forehead, brushing hair that probably resembled a tumbleweed.
Josh stood up.
Clara’s eyes found the bulge in his pants like a heat-guided missile.
Wow. Okay. So he’d suffered an involuntary response. To pheromones. That was fine. Casual. Nothing to get worked up over . . . again.
“Don’t worry about it, Wheaton. There’s no need to be embarrassed. Think of it this way, this will make a great story when you go back to Connecticut. You can dine out on your ‘The Time a Porn Star Made Me Come’ story for at least a year. Hell, considering the circles you run in, maybe for the rest of your life.”
Clara flinched. How sad did he think she was? Had she really gone through that earth-shattering situation alone? She admittedly didn’t share his wealth of experience, but Clara had thought maybe that had been something extraordinary.
He picked up his bag and held it in front of his body.
Idiot. How could she think that a little rubbing over her underwear would even register on Josh’s sexual radar? His mind and body were understandably at war.
Hadn’t she watched him with the redhead? He routinely went all the way with incredible-looking women.
Josh could probably have chemistry with a ficus.
