Page 22 of IRL: In Real Life
That fucking pull.
That deep, hot little pulse that had been following me since the second his hand landed at my back and let my body know this man was not hypothetical anymore.
I did it again.
Slower this time. Then tighter. The pad of my finger dragging, circling, easing the ache open instead of away. Water ran over my breasts while I rubbed myself deeper into it, my head tipping back against the tile, my mouth falling open.
His hand at my back. His gaze on my mouth. The way he’d looked relieved when he saw me, like the truth of me had given him something he didn’t know he’d needed.
That did something low and mean to me.
“Mmmm,” I breathed, the sound disappearing into the steam.
My fingers moved with more purpose now. Small circles. Then firmer ones. A wet, steady pressure that made my thighs tense and my stomach pull tight. My other hand moved over my waist, up my stomach, over my breast, thumb brushing one hard nipple, and that only made it worse.
Because the ache was not only about his face or his body or that hand I kept replaying. It was the mind behind the restraint. The way he listened. The way he answered without reaching for applause. Talking to him had not felt like work. I had not had to drag him toward substance and hope he could stay there.
He had just been there.
Watching. Listening. Matching me thought for thought.
Making the conversation feel like it had a body of its own before either one of us touched the other.
My fingers moved faster.
A tighter circle. Then another. Slickness and hot water made the friction sweet, almost too good. I bit down on my lip as a moan started low and climbed out of me anyway.
His cologne came back to me then, warm and expensive and close. I imagined stepping into it. Into him. Imagined that same big hand at my back, lower now. His mouth at my throat. His palm spreading my thigh open with the kind of quiet confidence that would have made resistance feel decorative at best.
I could almost feel it.
That was what got me.
The shape of him in the fantasy. The weight. The steadiness. The deepness. The idea of a thick dick pushing into me slow while that voice dropped lower in private and told me exactly what he was about to do.
“Oh, fuck.”
The sound left me before I could care.
I pressed harder over my clit, circling it in short, wet strokes while my body tightened toward something hot and overdue. My thighs started trembling. My stomach pulled taut. My pussy clenched around nothing, already greedy, already grasping like there should have been something there to answer it.
Him.
That was the truth.
I wanted a body there. Wanted thickness. Weight. A hand to hold me open. A mouth to kiss me through it. Wanted that big, composed man between my thighs making me lose every bit of my own good sense.
That thought nearly took me out by itself.
My fingers slipped lower for a second, teasing at my opening, then back up to my clit because that was where the ache was meanest. I rubbed harder. Faster. My breath broke. My body coiled. My free hand flattened against the tile as if I needed something solid to brace against while I came apart around absolutely nothing.
His voice.
His eyes.
That hand.
The way he had looked at me like he already knew what we both weren’t saying.
