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How embarrassing.
I’m usually quick on my feet and can give just as good as I get. My brain is screaming for me to look away but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. It’s like I’ve discovered a new species.
On Mars.
Before there’s any real possibility of jumpstarting my brain, he wraps his hand around the thick length and slowly strokes himself.
My eyes widen.
My mouth turns bone dry.
And my knees grow weak.
Any moment, I’m going to sink to the tile floor.
A gasp may or may not have just escaped from me.
I’ve never seen anything so hot as Ford touching himself. I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to wrap my lips around the girthy head, drawing him into my mouth before taking him deep. The idea is more tempting than expected.
What would he do if I dropped to my knees and opened my mouth wide?
The way his tightly clenched fist moves upward before stroking down the hard length is nothing short of mesmerizing.
How often does he get himself off?
Does he think of me?
The ache building deep in my core turns almost painful.
When was the last time I was this aroused?
I don’t remember, but it probably had to do with Ford.
Just when I can’t take another moment of this sweet torment, his fist loosens, and he releases the stiff member. He looks excruciatingly hard.
Swollen.
The tip is a mottled purple hue.
As if he’ll explode any second.
I can’t believe how much I want to see him come undone by his own hand.
What could be sexier than that?
My gaze flickers to his in question as a whimper of need works its way up my throat. It’s tempting to beg him to continue.
He jerks his head toward the metal door that leads to the hallway. “You should go.”
What?
No way.
How can I leave now?
Better question—how can he just stop?
“Ford,” I rasp, unable to help myself.
