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“Answer the question, Gwyneth. Didn’t you say that?”
“Yeah.”
“You also said it’s in the moment and you can’t describe it.”
“I did.”
“Then open your legs and show me.”
My elbows can barely hold me up anymore from how much they’re shaking, how much my pussy is tingling from his words and the command in them.
But I’m helpless in front of that dominance, so while I remain on one elbow, I reach the other hand to the zipper of my skirt and pull it down as I tremble uncontrollably. Then I fumble to kick it down my legs that are so hot and sensitive that I can feel the sheet scraping against them.
I let my thighs fall open, exposing my vanilla-colored panties. They’re lace and see-through and so soaked that another wave of heat covers my body when I realize he can see it.
He can see the arousal and the stickiness.
This is different from anything I’ve experienced before. Because he’s looking at me.
He’s looking at my wet panties and my shaking legs and my fingers that are sneaking beneath the lace. But he’s not only looking. His nostrils are flaring, too, and the veins in his hand that’s at his side appear to be more defined and masculine. The thought of that same hand on me, touching me, nearly drives me to the edge.
My nipples harden and push against my bra and shirt, making them ache, but not as much as where my fingers are heading. That’s where it hurts the most, because his eyes are there.
So I sink my fingers between my folds, using him as an anchor. And it feels different with him watching like I’m building up an explosion, not an orgasm.
But my hand is too soft and it’s not enough, even when I twist my clit and roll my hips.
I think it’s because he’s there and he’s watching with his jaw set in a line. Although I want him to watch me, to see me, so what’s wrong?
I can’t reach that peak, no matter how much I try, and it’s not due to my lack of arousal, because I’m so soaked that there are probably wet spots on the sheet.
“What’s wrong, baby girl? Having trouble?”
My fingers pause at that.Baby girl.
I think I became wetter, too, but that might be because he’s pushed off the wall and is stalking toward me. And it’s downright stalking, with his shoulders squared and his steps slow and measured.
And I can’t help feeling the sensation that I’m the prey who caught the attention of the big, bad wolf, but unlike in the fairy tale, I won’t be able to escape.
Damn how beautiful he is. And it’s not only about his face that seems to be cut from solid marble or his physique that could crush me as effortlessly as he carried me. It’s about everything else. It’s about the masculinity that oozes from each of his movements. It’s about that delicious authoritativeness that I can’t get enough of.
Before I can think of anything to say to make him call me “baby girl” again, he does something.
He gets on his knees. At the foot of the bed. In direct view of the apex of my thighs.
My hand freezes, and I don’t realize it until he motions at it. “You can’t get yourself off?”
“I…can.”
“Doesn’t seem like it.”
“I do…usually.”
“Not today, apparently.” He reaches a hand to where my panties meet my hip and I stop breathing when it makes contact. When his skin kisses mine and then drags them down my thighs.
They’re in his hands now, my lace panties that I’m thankful I chose this morning.
And then they’re in his pocket. Not on the floor, not somewhere no one would care about. They’re with him.
