Control. Charlotte Stein
Читать онлайн книгу.
Because he’s horny, so horny, even if other things inside him conspire to keep him alone. Just his little breathy sighs and his thick erection tell me how horny he is. Still, I want to hear him say it.
“Do you want me to give you a handjob?” I ask. Perhaps it’s the wrong thing to do. He glances to the side, briefly—almost looking at me, but not quite. His teeth are worrying into his bottom lip, again, and there’s a high glorious flush on the one pale cheek I can see.
Finally, he turns his face back to the bookshelf. Puts his hand over mine, suddenly, shockingly. He moans at the extra pressure.
“Yes,” he forces out. “Yes.”
I think about that point of mindlessness, when suddenly you just have to. When all possibilities open up. I think of him being there, of the book pushing him, of me pushing him, as I slide his zipper down.
Just the feel of his fingers pressing against my wrist, urging me on, is intensely arousing. My clit aches to be touched and wetness eases between my slippery pussy lips, sensation tight in the pit of my belly and ebbing and flowing with every new move I make. But it’s building, and I want to build it higher. It’ll be sweeter if I do. I want to come with the sounds of him going first in my ears.
The cotton of whatever underwear he’s wearing is damp. More than damp. So much so that I wonder if he’s already come, until I get my hands beneath the elastic and feel the slick bursting tip of his cock.
When I finally tug him free of his underwear and his trousers, I’m desperate to look. I need to look around his body and see what I’m holding, because good Christ it feels big. He’s swollen and taut with arousal—of course he is—but I don’t think it’s just him being turned on that’s making his cock a challenge for my circling grip.
I think of his broad shoulders and his large hands. Of course he’s got a big one. It would be weird if he were small. But this is something, even by those standards. It’s something by any standards—heavy against my palm and straining against my grasp.
I map him out as much as I can while he judders and gasps, forming a picture in my mind of his length. No wonder he sometimes walks funny, with something in front of him. It’s probably why he hunches. You couldn’t hide an erection like this.
I wonder how many quick, tight orgasms he’s jerked himself to, out of necessity. In the little toilet off the kitchen, perhaps, while I shop or bookkeep. Muffling his cries of pleasure in the sleeve of his jumper or against the back of his hand.
I thumb the slit at the head of his prick, and feel him buck against me.
“Please,” he groans. “Please—”
I understand. I need it too. I’m rubbing my swollen nipples into his back, by the time I get around to tugging at his cock in rough little jerks.
Of course, I don’t think it will take long. I squeeze and oil the way with all the slippery pre-come he seems to be producing. I twist my palm over all the good spots and work him nice and quickly. It shouldn’t take long at all.
And yet it does. He grunts and rocks his hips into my hand, eventually giving in to leaning against the bookshelf. He rests his forehead on the arm he plants over the other copies of Passion’s Flame, and his body trembles and trembles like a live wire, but he doesn’t come.
He only comes when his own hand snaps down over mine, whips quick, and guides me desperately in a different sort of motion. His gasps have turned frustrated and he’s practically whining, but as soon as his own strong hand squeezes mine almost painfully tight around his shaft, it’s clear that he’s getting what he needs.
“Ah, that’s it,” he blurts out, body tensing suddenly and his hand speeding up on his swelling cock. My hand speeding up on his swelling cock.
It feels as though I am him. Bristling, shameful pleasure rocking through me, jerking at myself like a dirty little slut. More than likely about to spurt all over the books, and with thoughts of such only making the whole thing seedier, better, more.
My legs are shaking, in almost exactly the same way as his. I can’t catch my breath, and I have to press myself right up against him to keep myself steady. Delicious urges thrill through me, and I give in to at least one of them—I turn my face against the bobbly wool of the little olive green tank top he’s wearing, and bite, hard. I bite material, and the jut of his shoulder blade, and flesh.
My eyes open wide when he cries out in a way that suggests he doesn’t hate a move like that. Not at all. In fact, he squeezes my hand tighter, around his cock. He jerks forward, as though pulled. And then his heavy prick leaps and spurts, thickly.
I know it does, because he cups his free hand around himself in this strange little jerky move, and everything spatters into the hollow he’s made.
My immediate urge, however, is not what it was when Andy came all over my face—to get a tissue. Instead I want to turn him around, and lick my fingers clean right in front of him. I want to make him watch, and then I want to make him clean himself up, too.
Not that I get the opportunity to do either. Instead, he keeps his hand over mine—so that I have to sag forward when he does. He presses his forehead into the wood of one of the shelves, this time, but the impression I’m left with is the same. Frustration, and a mild sort of despair.
I don’t think this has made him happy. I might have realized something about myself, but I don’t think he’s quite there yet. In fact, I’m not sure he’s even in the vicinity.
I try to straighten and detach myself from him, but that’s a mistake. The moment I do, he lets me go and jerks around, as flustered and blustery as ever I’ve seen him. He goes to pick up the dropped book, but then seems to realize that he’s still exposed and covered in something that shouldn’t be on books—which only makes him more agitated.
His hair is delightfully mussed. Or at least, it would be delightful if he weren’t so clearly mortified.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. His eyes flash ten types of panic at me, and all ten make my stomach twist in sickly knots.
However, before I can calm him down and reassure him that I’m actually the wicked pervert, he barges past me and out the door. He doesn’t even remember to take his coat.
Lord, I hope he remembered to fasten his trousers.
I leave a series of messages on his answerphone, but hold out no hope that they’ll reach him. For some reason, I imagine his answering machine as a hand-cranked gramophone-type device, in a house full of similar items.
He probably has a mangle.
Either way, he doesn’t call me back. Instead I get three hundred messages on my answerphone, from Andy. Some of them are dirty. None of them are as dirty as giving Gabe a handjob in the back of my shop. Though the “I want to come in your ass” one skirts extremely close.
I wonder if Gabe would dare to say words like that. I bet he’s never even thought of such an idea, though I’m guessing his erotic romance education is getting him close. I bet it’s making him want to pick up the phone and call me.
All I have to do is wait. Be patient. Don’t force him. Why do I want to force him so badly?
Because I can still smell him on my skin—that sweet clean scent, like pine so strong and fine it’s almost mint. Because when I think of his lean body strung out so taut and trembling against me, I go weak.
Because he needs a push, and maybe some tender loving care. And though I’m not that sort of person—or at least, I don’t think I am—I can at least bake him a lasagna. If there are ulterior motives beneath the lasagna, like dirty fucking and not getting sued, well. At least he’s getting a delicious pasta