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Need makes it sound permissible, like food or water, air or shelter.
And damn it, I do need him. The urgency in my body making me want to beg for more feels as if I wouldn’t survive if he were to get up and walk away right now.
“Are you uncomfortable?”
I shake my head, my breath hitching when he leans in closer.
“How about now?”
I give another shake of my head.
I groan when his warm lips meet my neck, my head angling of its own volition to give him better access.
His mouth on my skin puts his body lined perfectly with mine, making me absently realize that we’re about the same height, although my build is slightly thicker, just a little more muscular compared to the trim athletic one he has.
“What’s wrong?” I ask when suddenly he’s standing at the side of the bed.
He gives me a knowing smile, and it makes me feel like I played the wrong hand.
He locks eyes with me as he adjusts himself in his slacks, and I take a little pride in the fact that I may be affecting him in the same way he’s affecting me.
“I can’t stop thinking about what happened last night at Hale-ish,” he says, his voice heavy and thick, laced with sleep but also more than a hint of desire.
“It was the first time I ever touched a man like that before,” I confess, doing my best to keep my eyes on him even when he licks at his lips.
“I enjoyed it more than I should have.”
“You enjoyed it,” he corrects. “That’s where the statement needs to stop.”
The next flex of his arm makes my eyes drop to his waist, my cock leaking in my jeans at the sight of him fisting himself over his clothes.
“Do you want to see it?”
I tried watching it last night with my forehead against his, but we both came too fast for me to pull the fabric of his underwear down to get my eyes on it.
“I don’t think—”
“Then don’t think,” he interrupts. “Tell me when to stop.”
My mouth is dry the next time I try to swallow as he uses both hands to open the zipper of his slacks. Once again, he grips himself, this time over his boxers.
I want to beg for more, but I can’t seem to manage the words. I realize this will just be one more thing I’ll consider his sin, and it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t carry the same relief that it did that night in the barracks when I was in the Corps.
“More,” I whisper. “Show me.”
This is no longer about what he’s doing, but what we’re doing together. I won’t let him own all the guilt or blame.
He doesn’t give me what I want. Instead, he releases himself altogether.
But then his hands are unbuttoning his shirt.
“Faster,” I beg, but the man doesn’t listen. Each slide of every button feels like a million years. It’s a tease I never asked for but I’m both hating and enjoying it all the same.
I’m grateful the man is a little rough around the edges when he pulls the sides of the shirt apart, revealing his bare chest rather than an undershirt.
I’m faced with those same tattoos I’ve grown obsessed over since he sent that picture.
“Too much?” he asks once again, as he shoves his slacks to his ankles, not pulling his eyes from me. He kicks them off, his hand working up and down his shaft, still over his boxer briefs.
I want to growl in frustration when he takes a seat across the room in the chair I was in last night rather than climbing back on the bed with me.
His cheek twitches with mirth when he reads my frustration for what it is.
“How about now?” he asks, one hand working his cock, the other tugging at his balls.
His boxer briefs are tight, and although they don’t leave much to the imagination, it’s still not enough.
“Not enough,” I confess. “I want to see you.”
“Tit for tat,” he says, making my heart threaten to pound right out of my chest.
My hands are slow out of nervousness rather than trying to be a tease, like he’d previously done.
“I’ve never done this before,” I confess, my mind threatening to go back to the last time someone saw me with my hands on my own body.
It didn’t end well that time for me.
Rather than reveal myself completely, I shove my hand down the front of my unzipped jeans, my fist working up and down my shaft, the luxury of it so delightful my toes curl and my head presses harder on the pillow.
When I manage to open my eyes and look back at him, he’s still stroking on the outside of his boxers.
“Please,” I beg.
“Take your jeans and boxers off.”
This time, I don’t hesitate to do his bidding. I don’t have to fear this man or wonder about what comes later. I don’t have to worry that he’s going to physically hurt me for doing his bidding.
