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“Please.” The word is soft and raspy. Although I feel the sound in my throat, there’s no way I’m the one who said it.
There’s a huffing sound from behind me, and I suddenly realize that it’s William.
William is on top of me. Making me feel this way.
His weight is hard, and something even harder is poking against my butt.
“Please!” That’s me again, still soft but almost desperate. I raise my hips slightly so I can feel him more intensely.
He huffs again and makes a clumsy little thrust against my bottom. It’s instinctive. Primal, not purposeful. I know it even through the hungry haze of my brain.
I gasp at the tight clench of pleasure the move prompts in me.
William makes a mumbling sound and thrusts a few more times.
He’s asleep.
I always sleep on my side, facing away from him, and he usually does the same. But he must have rolled over at some point as he was sleeping and rolled on top of me, pushing me over onto my stomach.
I can’t imagine another scenario where we would have ended up like this without either of us doing it purposefully.
But it feels so good. My body craves even more. I want him to keep thrusting, tear off my clothes, push that erection inside me until both of us find release.
I’m not asleep anymore, but he still is. That means I have to somehow stop this. It feels like sex to me, but he’s not even conscious of doing it.
It’s wrong. I’ve got to make it stop.
The guilt is enough to distract me from the carnal urges. I scoot closer to the edge of the bed, trying to slide out from under him.
He turns onto his side, taking me with him, and uses one arm to drag me closer. Snug against his body. He pumps his hips with a low, primitive groan.
Oh fuck. I’m about to lose it. I want it so much.
Panting loudly, I use all the will I have left to move his arm and pull away.
He resists, trying to pull me back, but the jerky move must finally wake him up.
He makes a weird, throaty sound, and the tension in his body shifts unmistakably.
He grows very still.
I’m still on my side, clinging to the edge of the bed. Slammed with waves of heat and embarrassment and confusion, I keep my eyes closed and try to even out my breathing.
He needs to think I’m asleep. That’s the only way we’re going to get out of this mortifying situation.
I feel the slightest touch on my shoulder, like he reached out with only his fingertips.
I still don’t move. He’s got to think I’m still sleeping.
Then he mutters very softly, “Fuck. Oh fuck.”
With a stifled groan, he gets out of bed and walks quickly into the bathroom. I hear the door click and let out a raspy sigh.
That was torture. An erotic kind of torture.
I hear the shower turn on and can only imagine what he’s doing in there.
Unfortunately, I do imagine it. I picture him in there, pumping himself with his hand until he releases with one of those primal groans.
