Page 10 of Sweet (Chicago Underground 7)
“Are fine.” A lie, but if I told him the truth, he would insist that I sit down, that I apply the ice pack with a detached solicitousness that I got from everyone else, all the time. I wanted the other part of him, dark and dirty. I wasn’t the first to be with him like this, but I was here now. And for now, that would be enough.
He slid open the belt and unbuttoned his pants.
I shook my head when his hand was halfway down the zipper. “Not yet. First I showed you my—” I looked down at the pale flesh peeking above the leotard I still wore. I had showed him my breasts.
His gaze was a tender mix of appreciation and bemusement. “Which I appreciated immensely, but I don’t think I have the right anatomy for that.”
“Show me anyway.” My voice lilted up at the end, turning into a question. Despite my demands, I wanted him to want this. This wasn’t a play at dominance; it was a different sort of game, one with points earned in longing and penalties for shyness. I had bared myself out of nothing more than desire, and I needed the same from him. “I want to see you, but only if you really want this.”
He didn’t answer with words. Instead he unbuttoned his shirt with slow, lazy flicks of the wrist while his gaze remained locked with mine. He tugged the sides apart, revealing a soft crinkle of hair peeking over the rim of a white tank undershirt.
After pulling that over his head, he leaned back—a pasha in a vintage chic armchair, casual and seductive and unafraid in the tower where I’d hidden for so long.
“Do you touch yourself there?” I asked, inclining my head toward his chest. His nipples were brown circles nestled beneath dark brown hair. His skin bunched in ridges at the top of his stomach, then smoothed out into a hairless expanse around his belly button.
“No.”
“Just…lower.” Where the hair became thick, pointing down into the waistband of his briefs.
“Yes, lower. Is that what you want to see? How I touch myself?”
“When you’re alone. Yes.”
Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t comment as he pushed down the blue fabric of his briefs and pulled himself out. It was thicker than I’d been expecting, more purple than regular flesh. He fisted himself and stroked once, twice, three times.
When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse. “It’s fast when I do it. Fast and hard and not all that good, really. But with your eyes on me, I
think it will be even faster.”
I stared, fascinated, as he handled himself so roughly.
“Unless you want me to slow it down, I’m going to come soon. Unless you want me to wait.”
“Why?” I licked my lips, a motion he tracked closely with a gaze forged in iron. “Why would I want you to go slower?”
“There’s power in denial.” He stared at me while his hand shuttled at his cock. “There’s pleasure in waiting. Delayed gratification.”
“Oh. I wouldn’t know about all that.”
His laugh was curt. “You know enough, Rose. Any more and you might just kill me.”
Despite his assertion, it didn’t end fast. At least not like I’d assumed it would, based on his fierce pumping. He twisted his hand on each upstroke before settling down to a long, hard glide. Again and again, though still he didn’t finish. The mystery built in my mind—what would he look like?
My lips parted as I leaned forward. His breath stuttered, and his hand faltered.
“Rose,” he groaned.
“Should I help?” I whispered.
“Help how?”
Touch you. Lick you. Impale myself on you so we can both get what we want. “I don’t know.”
He shook his head, his hand resuming its slide. “You can’t have it both ways. It’s either tease or fulfill me, withhold or submit—there’s no in between.”
With shaking hands, I pulled the tank top off me, baring myself to his hot gaze. “Then do it on me. It’s not really touching.”
A strained smile touched his lips, but his hand sped up. His eyes were glued to my breasts.
