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“No touching. Only looking.”
“You know, the couple in this storycan’ttouch. She’s a ghost. But they would have if she had a physical body. Like we do.”
“We’re playing with fire as it is, and you know it. If I was a decent guy I’d take a cold shower, but I’m not decent, and I don’t think you want me to be.” His hand teases the bulge in his pants as he speaks. “I can’t cross the line, but it seems I’ve got no problem walking right up to it. So, either get on the bed and show me your pussy or get dressed.”
Typically, I hate being told what to do. It’s often a trigger to make me do the opposite. Yet right here, standing half-naked in front of him, his commanding tone excites me. It makes the narrator’s voice fade to nothing, giving the illusion that our actions are our own. So, I follow his instructions. Mostly.
“And you?” I let my eyes drift to the hand softly rubbing himself as I sit on the foot of the bed, finger teasing the waistband of my panties.
He lurches from the chair, yanking his jeans open and pushing those and his boxers to the floor. His cock, once free, bobs heavily up and down before coming to a rest. Long and thick, it points straight to where I’m sitting, as if it’s ready to lead the way forward. Part of me hopes it will, but those hopes are dashed when he sits back in the chair and takes it in his fist.
Though that disappoints me, I want to look more, without him obstructing the view. However, Ireallylike watching him touch himself. The way his fist slides over his length, slow and steady, his thumb occasionally swiping over the tip… Just,wow.
“I’m waiting.” His husky reminder has me peeling off my soaked panties and mimicking his posture. Legs spread wide, hand teasing my center, mouth parted despite the inability to pull air into my lungs.
“That’s it. Slide your fingers along your slit and show me how wet you are,” he says in tune with the book.
As directed, I glide my index and middle fingers between my legs, capturing my arousal on them. Then I hold them up for inspection.
“Good girl,” he growls appreciatively. “Now touch your clit. Rub little circles around it. Slowly,” he admonishes when I start to get carried away. “I don’t want you coming yet. Get your finger wet again if you need to, but don’t rush.”
Taking my cues from the way he’s touching himself with leisurely, deliberate strokes, I draw circles around my aching clit with my index finger as my middle finger and thumb spread my pussy lips wide, exposing me fully.
A strangled groan rumbles in his chest as Deacon devours me with his eyes, and a needy sigh echoes from mine.His hands are so big. Probably strong. Yet he’s working himself gently, the epitome of control even though that locked jaw would suggest he has none. I wish I could feel him touching me the way he’s touching himself. Stroking me slowly. Reverently.
“What’s running through that dirty little mind of yours, Tiff?”
“Uh, nothing.” Somehow the idea of confessing my thoughts feels more intimate than having him watch me pleasure myself.
“That gleam in your eye says different. What are you thinking?”
Inhaling for courage, my breath trickles out as I close my eyes. “I wonder what it would feel like to have you touch me like you do yourself.”
“How am I touching myself?”
“Gentle but firm. Like you’re on the brink of losing control. But you don’t.” My fingers skim over my sensitive flesh, mirroring the way his fingertip caresses his tip.
“You have no idea.” His fist stills, tightening its grip on his length, which is hotter than my own touch.
“Oh my God.” My hips buck of their own accord, and Deacon barks at me to stop.
“No coming yet. Move your hand.”
“You, first.” I don’t know where that command comes from, I just know I want to see him fully, without his hand blocking the view.
“Together,” he grunts.
He releases his cock as I move my hand, both of us heaving for air as we abruptly halt our rising pleasure, and I get a clear glimpse of just how turned on he is.
His cock stands proud, just as thick and long as you’d expect for someone of his size. The base is hidden behind a tuft of hair, though it’s not as bushy or unkempt as his otherwise rugged appearance would suggest. In fact, I’d venture a guess that he keeps it trimmed. Heavy, round balls hang beneath the patch of hair, and the smooth tip shines in the dim light of the room.Beautiful. I’ve heard it said that the female body is a work of art while the male body is…underwhelming. Whoever said that hasn’t seen Deacon.
I can’t explain it, but the sight of him makes me even wetter.Needier. My pussy screams for more friction, my hips straining upward though there’s nothing there to satisfy me. Across the room, Deacon’s thigh muscles flex as his dick seems to twitch, almost as if it’s seeking the same contact I am.
“Does it always do that?” I pant.
“What, move on its own?” He arches a thick brow, which is unfairly sexy under the circumstances. “Yeah, if it’s not buried in a tight pussy.”
“Oh God,” I moan as the image of him thrusting deep inside me takes hold. “I want that.”
