Page 125 of So Not Meant To Be
And instead of listening to his voice, letting him dirty talk his way over my body, I’m provoking him, pushing him away, making him impossibly angrier.
Eyes on mine, he says, “Touch yourself. Show me you’re not wet.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t believe you. Show me you aren’t won over by my charm.”
My teeth run over my lip, my heart wildly beating. I know I’m wet. I know I’m turned on. And I know it’s from him.
I move my hand down my body to between my legs. I slip my fingers past the lace and against my clit. My eyes instantly shut from the pressure, and I hate myself for giving up how I feel, for showing him that I’m exactly where he wants me to be.
My eyes fly open as he seizes my wrist, and I find him bent forward, one hand propped on the bed, the other bringing my fingers toward his mouth. He parts his lips, drags my fingers over his tongue, and then releases them.
Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so sexy in my life.
“Fucking liar,” he says, tucking my hand back under the lace between my legs. When I try to remove my hand, he keeps me there, pressing his hand against mine. “Why are you lying to me?” I don’t answer him, so he says, “I wouldn’t lie to you. I’m not concealing how I feel.” I glance down at his bulge again, the fabric of his shorts outlining his cock.
“You are by wearing those shorts,” I say. I don’t know why I say it, maybe because I’m so far gone at this point, but I’m desperate for something, anything.
With his eyes still on mine, he reaches to his waistband, pulls his cock out, and strokes his length right in front of me.
Girthy.
Long.
Promising.
“Is this what you wanted?” he asks. “You wanted this cock?”
Yes.
I also want your lips.
Your hands.
Your body.
“Tell me why you’re hard.” I attempt to remove my hand from under my bustier again, but he stops me once again.
“Touch yourself,” he demands. “I know you want to. I know you need to. Touch yourself, and I’ll tell you why I’m hard.”
I seal my lips together and slip my fingers along my slit until they press against my clit. With two fingers, I gently massage it while my legs spread on the mattress.
His eyes fall to where I’m pleasuring myself and then back up. He wets his lips and lowers one hand to the mattress, bringing him closer while he continues to stroke himself.
“That’s it, keep touching yourself, Kelsey. Tell me how wet you are.”
“Tell me why you’re hard, first,” I counter.
“I’m hard because of the way you walk through this penthouse, acting as if you don’t have any interest in me, but your eyes tell me differently. I’m hard because you have no fucking clue just how alluring you are, how fucking sexy you are. I’m hard because the taste of your pussy is lingering on my tongue, and if I truly had my way, you’d be stripped naked, tied to this bed, waiting for me to pleasure you.”
“If you had your way?” I ask, a hitch in my voice. “What does that mean?”
His thumb reaches up and traces my face, down my neck, and across my arm. “You aren’t mine.” He lets go of his cock and moves me on the bed, making room so he can kneel in front of me. Then he removes my hand from where I’m pleasuring myself and brings his cock to my slit, running it against the fabric. The sensation is absolute torture, feeling him this close, just a miniscule fabric blocking our connection. “If you were mine, there would be nothing between us.”
That light pressure, the barely-there feeling of his cock mixed with the erotic nature of what he’s doing, sends an intense yearning through me. A need so strong that my mind starts to black out. The only thing it’s focused on is relief.
Relief from the buildup.
