Page 74 of So This Is War
I want to fuck you.
I want to bury myself between your legs.
I want to live there for days on end, making you come on my tongue over and over again just so I can watch you writhe against the mattress.
I want to feel you squeeze my cock.
I want to feel your slick pussy, bare, with nothing between us.
I want to hear you cry out my name until your voice is hoarse.
I want to be rid of this ache that’s holding my dick hostage.
I FUCKING WANT YOU!
I tack on a smile, painfully aware of my desperation. “Yup, everything is great.”
“Okay because it looked like you were screaming into a pillow.”
“Stubbed my toe,” I reply. “Got me good.”
“Ooo, I hate when that happens. You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Because I can take care of it for you if you want. Ice it. Massage. Suck on it . . .” She winks, and I nearly choke on my own saliva.Suck. On. It. Yes, I fucking want you to suck on it—it being my cock that is weeping for you.
I nervously laugh. “Uh, not needed. I’ll survive.”
She clutches her chest. “You’re so brave. By the way, I hope it’s okay that I’m wearing one of your shirts. I thought it would be better than a wet towel.”
I prefer the wet towel.
Actually, if I’m taking requests, no clothes would be best. And if you want, you can sit on my lap to air dry if you need to.
“Yeah, totally cool.”
“Great because I might keep it. You have like twenty of these in your closet, and it’s the perfect nighttime shirt.” She moves over to the living room and takes a seat next to me. Okay, so she’s sitting down, that’s what’s happening. Be cool, man. “Have you looked through the social media posts I’ve made? People are loving them.”
“I haven’t. I’ll be sure to look through them.” I keep my eyes forward and not on the way her tits sway against the loose fabric of my shirt.
“Some of your female fans are using the hashtag, Pretty Posey.” She props her head on her hand while leaning against the back of the couch and asks, “Were you aware that you’re pretty?”
“Uh, I prefer handsome, but sure, I do tend to look at myself in the mirror and think, wow, you’re a good-looking man.”
She laughs. “How often? Every time you look in the mirror?”
I rub my palms on my thighs, still looking straight ahead. “I average about once a day.”
“You know, it’s good to have confidence. As long as that confidence doesn’t turn into cockiness.”
“Cockiness isn’t bad,” I reply while I pretend to pick a piece of lint off my shirt. Anything to avoid looking at her.
“Maybe on the ice, but when dealing with women, it’s bad. It’s kind of a turnoff.”
That piques my interest, so I turn toward her. “You’d rather have a blubbering mess trying to hit on you than a guy who’s sure of himself?”
She smiles broadly at me, probably because I’m finally looking at her rather than avoiding her like . . . well . . . a blubbering mess. “I think there’s a fine line.” She drags her finger on my forearm and says, “I think it’s good to have a man who’s confident but doesn’t think a woman is beneath him, like she’s lucky to breathe the same air as him.”
