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I balance on my knees to run my flattened palms around his sides to his back, wanting to discover the muscles he has hidden back there as well. But in doing so, I lean so close to him my nipples brush against that chest hair I could write sonnets about, and it’s like I’ve finally been thrown in my rightful place in the loony bin and have just undergone my first round of electric-shock therapy. Only they attached the paddles right to my boobs and not my temples. An involuntary gasp fills my lungs with the clean scent of him, and I freeze in place once again.
Sensory overload.
The wheel in the center of my brain’s screen that indicates data-processing fills my mind’s eye, spinning smoothly, then getting a little choppy, then stopping altogether, stuck there for God only knows how long, before it kicks into motion again, whirling faster than normal as it plays catch-up before evening out into a steady rotation once more.
And when it clears, a pop-up takes its place with big, bold letters:
W… T… F?!
When I got my breast augmentation, I lost sensitivity in my nipples. It wasn’t a big deal because I wasn’t particularly fond of them being messed with anyway. I never got the sexually pleasurable feelings I always read about other women getting from their nipples being stimulated. I was always more aroused by their fingers skimming lightly along the skin beneath them, enjoying the almost ticklish, teasing sensation around them rather than direct contact with the bullseye in the center.
So to have such a strong positive physical response to something I never cared about before is startling to say the least, and then add breathing in—deep and fast—his scent to discover the fresh and uplifting aroma of eucalyptus, I’m damn near intoxicated.
And immediately so wet my knees try to come together as if I might drip.
But it turns out his hand is still… right… there.
How was I oblivious to the fact that he never removed his hand from the inside of my knee when he instructed me how to sit?
But now it’s all I’m aware of as his grip there tightens, not allowing my legs to close even an inch, and my face flames at the idea I might leave a fucking puddle in his truck just from petting his chest.
“Keep them open. I told you how I like for you to sit. Don’t receive your first punishment by ignoring such a simple command,” he says, his voice gruffer than it was before, and that combined with the words he spoke makes me clench, which makes my blush spread down my neck and heat my chest. In turn, instincts take over, and my legs try to close again of their own accord.
I whimper, trying my best to hold still and will my pussy not to produce any more wetness. Yes, I’m wearing panties, but it’s just one of the little thongs I wear beneath my workout shorts or leggings so I don’t walk around with a freaking camel toe. They’re not exactly made for absorbency. I will literally die if he feels how fucking embarrassingly wet I am right now, when we haven’t even freaking done anything to warrant such a biological response!
And then I panic.
With that tone of his promising a punishment if my legs don’t stay open to him, but my body closing in on itself, trying to go full-on fetal position at this moment, I do the only thing I can think of to distract this completely overwhelming man from the fact that I literally cannot make my legs follow his order.
Instead of fighting against my instincts, I lean into them, trying to make it seem like I’m actually just repositioning myself—not closing my knees—as I lift my ass off my heels and my upper body continues to curl forward. It dislodges his firm grip on my leg, not by my own strength, but because what man is going to block a mostly naked woman from coming face-to-face with their now very much fully-erect cock?
For once, a decision I made in a state of panic is actually the right one… as in I succeeded in my goal of him not discovering the leak I’ve sprung. But as a result, I have skipped far ahead in the delightful process of learning each and every inch of his body.
It’s just like me to be so self-conscious or embarrassed of something about myself that I completely give up a hard-earned reward just to save face.
I’ve spent countless hours fantasizing about asking him the story behind every one of his tattoos, and I was going to get to do just that… in reality… right here and right now. I was oh-so close… literally holding the prize right in my hands, and then it was snatched away. This somehow always happens to me. I think I’ve lucked out and will get to do something I want to so badly, and then some bullshit ends up throwing a wrench in my plan, fucking up my opportunity.
