Chapter 10 #2
I move my hand between us, fingers trailing a path of heat along her denim-clad thigh. The swab is still clamped in her right hand. I can see how much she wants this, the way her body leans into me, the way her breath comes in desperate gasps, chest shuddering every time I press closer.
She tries to regain control, but it's slipping through her fingers.
I can see the precise moment she gives up, lets it go.
Her head falls back against the wall, exposing the pale arc of her throat.
I watch her pulse race beneath skin so fine it seems almost translucent.
My thumb finds the seam of her jeans, right where I know her clit will be.
I press there, slow at first, a testing pressure, then with a rhythm that's calculated to drive her insane.
Every motion is deliberate. Mechanical, almost cruel in its precision.
I want her to remember this moment forever.
She makes a sound—high, breathless—and her hips jerk forward, chasing my thumb.
Her thighs clamp around my hand, trapping it.
I don't stop. I speed up, grinding the heel of my palm against her until I can feel her clenching through layers of stiff denim.
I want her to fall apart against me. I want her to lose herself, just once.
"That's it," I murmur, voice low and guttural. "Ride my hand. Show me how bad you want it."
She tries to stifle a moan, but it escapes anyway. Her eyes flutter closed, and her whole body shakes. I can feel her getting close, the way her muscles seize and her breath goes ragged. I press harder, thumb working the seam in tight, relentless circles.
Her hand, the one that held the swab, drops to my shoulder. She claws at me, leaving angry red crescents in my skin. Her other hand fists in my hair, pulling me closer, and I let her. I want her mouth right at my ear, want to feel her breathy cries vibrate through me.
"You're soaked," I growl, "You want to come so bad, don't you?"
She manages a nod, barely. Her hips roll faster. The tension builds.
"You're going to come for me," I tell her, my words as much an order as a promise, "right here, against my kitchen wall. Still dressed, with my hand between your legs. And then you'll finish patching me up while your pussy's still twitching, still hungry for more."
She whimpers at that, and I feel something in her snap. She bucks hard against my palm. Her face is buried in my shoulder now, muffling the sounds she can't help but make. I press my mouth to her ear, biting the lobe, tasting her sweat and wanting more.
"Come on, Daphne," I urge, "let go for me. I want to feel you fall apart."
Something gives, and her whole body goes rigid, arching off the wall.
The first wave of her orgasm hits and she trembles so violently I have to lock my arm around her waist to keep her upright.
She's gasping, panting, biting my shoulder to keep from screaming.
Her thighs convulse around my wrist, squeezing so hard I almost lose circulation.
I keep my thumb moving, drawing out every last spasm, every aftershock.
She's crying now, tears streaming down her face, and I want to say something to make it stop—but I don't. I know what these tears mean.
I know what it is to be overwhelmed by sensation, to realize you're not as in control as you thought.
I cradle her through it, hold her like she might break, even as the part of me that's still hard and hungry wants to push her over the edge again.
She collapses against me, boneless, breathing hard. Her pulse hammers against my collarbone. For a moment, we're still. Just breathing, existing in the same charged space. I can taste her in the air, the animal sweetness of her, and it drives me fucking insane.
My cock is painfully hard, straining against my jeans.
I want to shove her to her knees, make her finish what she started.
I want to tear her clothes off, fuck her until she screams my name and forgets her own.
But I don't. I hold her, rock her gently, like she's something precious I have to protect.
She lifts her head, blinking up at me. Her eyes are glassy, pupils so blown there's hardly any color left.
"I—" she starts, then stops.
I let her stay pressed against my chest for a few more seconds.
Then, slowly, I step back. Just enough to put three feet between us, though everything in me wants to close the distance.
My right hand is damp through her jeans.
Evidence of what I've done, what she let me do. I can smell her on my skin.
I don't look at her face. Can't. If I see her flushed cheeks, her kiss-swollen lips from where she bit them to stay quiet, I'll lose the last thread of control.
"Finish."
One word. Operational, not emotional, though my voice comes out rougher than usual.
She pushes off the wall on unsteady legs. No words. I hear her breathing, still ragged. She walks back to the stool, and I can see the dark patch on her jeans where she came so hard she soaked through.
I sit. She steps between my knees again. Same geometry as before, except we're both different now. The air between us is thick with sex and unspoken need.
Her hands shake as she picks up a fresh swab. The tremor makes the cleaning less precise. She has resolve to finish, not steadiness. I watch her struggle to focus, watch her thighs press together like she's still aching.
She completes the wound care. Applies a butterfly closure that sits slightly crooked from her shaking hands. Her fingers linger on my skin a moment too long before pulling away.
Steps back. Closes the kit. Sets it on the counter. Won't meet my eyes, but I see the flush spreading down her neck, disappearing beneath her shirt collar.
I stand. Pull my shirt back on over the bruised ribs, though the fabric does nothing to hide my still-hard cock. Cross to the back wall.
The bedroll unfolds easily, though my hands want to shake. I remove my boots. Lie down. But not facing the wall like every other night. Tonight I lie facing the room, back to the wall, eyes toward her bed eight feet away. My cock still throbs, demanding attention I won't give it.
She stands in the kitchen. The first-aid kit closed. Two soiled swabs in the trash. Still in her jeans and t-shirt, hair coming loose from the knot. The sounds of La Sirena drift up through the floor. Laughter, music, the normal world continuing while ours has shifted into something else entirely.
She crosses to the bathroom. I hear fabric shifting. She's changing. She emerges in my black shirt, bare legs visible in the lamplight. The shirt falls to her knees, and my cock jumps at the sight.
She stops briefly at the alcove threshold, one hand braced on the wall like she needs the support. Her thighs are pressed together, and I know she's still feeling the aftershocks, still wet and aching.
She climbs into bed. Turns toward the wall, away from me. But not before I see her hand drift down, hovering over where I touched her, like she's remembering.
The lamp stays on.
She hasn't moved in ten minutes, but her breathing gives her away.
Too shallow, too careful, too controlled.
She's awake. Knowing I'm watching. Feeling me watching.
The sheet rustles as she shifts, and I catch the smallest sound.
Not quite a whimper, but close. Her hand moves under the covers, then stops. I hear her breath catch.
She's still wet. Still aching. Still here.
My cock hasn't softened. Won't. Not with her scent still on my hand, not with the memory of her shattering against my palm.
The need to cross those eight feet burns through me like acid.
Eight feet. I could be there in two strides.
Could slide my hand between her bare thighs, feel her wetness without the barrier of denim.
Could make her come again, harder this time, until she screams my name.
She shifts again. Her thighs press together under the covers. I can tell by how the fabric moves. Another almost-sound escapes her, so quiet I barely catch it. But I do. I catch everything. Every breath, every movement, every second she doesn't sleep.
Neither of us is going to sleep tonight.