Chapter 21
Megan
Iwake to something moving. A shuffle of fabric, whisper soft, and the sensation of nearness. A body in the dark, somewhere next to me.
I open my eyes to a soft haze of moonlight filtering through the slit in the curtains.
Jameson stands next to the bed, one arm stretched above his head as he leans against the window, like he’s looking out.
He doesn’t have a shirt on.
His side is to me. I can see his beautifully muscled body, down to his trim waist and hips, and the boxer briefs he’s wearing.
The bulge in front looks thick.
His head turns my way, and I shut my eyes. I’m not even sure why I don’t want him to catch me watching him. But I keep them closed as his soft footsteps pad across the room and fade away.
I open my eyes. I’m sure he went into the walk-in closet.
I listen, hearing nothing but the pounding of my own heart.
What is he doing?
The glowing clock on his night table tells me it’s the middle of the night. If he got up to use the bathroom, why was he just standing there at the window?
And looking at me?
I peel back the covers in silence, with the buzzing awareness that something’s happening. I feel his restless energy in his wake, like a ripple of heat in the night.
Why isn’t he sleeping?
I creep toward the walk-in and listen, but I still don’t hear anything. If he was getting dressed in there, I’d hear it, right?
I move quietly, trying to think up some excuse in case I smash right into him. I heard him get up and came to see if he’s okay, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong with that.
So why do I feel guilty as I steal through the closet?
Because he’s not in here.
Which means he continued on, into his bathroom or mine, and I’m about to follow him.
I go for his, and tiptoe along the twisting hall, still hearing nothing. If he’s using the toilet, he’ll be in that room with the door shut, and I’ll just run back to bed.
But my heart is pounding because somehow, I know he’s not using the toilet.
And I’m about to spy on him.
He won’t be showering. He showered when I arrived tonight. If he turns on the shower, he’s definitely masturbating.
But no water turns on.
I hear something. Like the soft sound of feet shifting on the tile, from within the bathroom.
I creep to the edge of the wall and peek around the corner. His bathroom is large and pristine, a mirror image of mine.
And standing in the middle of it is Jameson.
As I watch, he hooks his thumbs into his boxer briefs and tugs them down. His swollen cock and balls bounce free, and I hear his rough, pleasured breath.
Anticipation.
My heart lodges in my throat as the same feeling rises in me, on a wave of heat.
He drops the underwear and steps out of it.
With a panther’s grace, he stalks silently to the wide marble counter, his side to me as I cling to the edge of the wall, hidden from view, out of reach of the lights. His long, strong body is completely bare, and I stare.
He’s big. Bigger than what I’m used to.
I’ve never seen any man’s naked cock in the flesh except Troy’s.
Jameson is taller than Troy, more muscular, and his cock is thicker, longer. It’s partially erect, swollen, the plump head bobbing with each step. His balls bounce heavily against the fronts of his thighs, fat and full.
I’m instantly intoxicated by the sight of him, as the sexual response floods my system with chemicals, making me shaky, needy, hungry.
I shouldn’t be spying on him. He didn’t spy on me. But I stare, and I can’t stop myself.
He stands directly in front of the sink. There’s a large mirror above, and he seems to be looking down, with heavily lidded eyes, at his cock in the reflection. He spreads his feet, stabilizing himself, his thighs pressed to the marble counter, his cock over the sink.
I know what he’s about to do, and I still can’t look away. I’m too transfixed by his naked body, his virility, his obvious arousal.
And the overwhelming desire I feel for him.
His hand goes to his balls. He huffs softly, a gruff sound of relief, as his fingers slide over the swollen sac. That sound he makes goes straight between my legs, and my core pulses in response. I can feel myself growing swollen, wet, as I watch him swell.
He squeezes his balls, and his cock bounces, straining. The thick length flexes, stiffening, and he hasn’t even touched it yet.
I know I shouldn’t be watching this.
I can’t stop.
He pulls on his heavy sac, stretching it and squeezing. Then he runs his other hand up the length of his thick shaft, all the way to the head, and back down, a groan lodging in his throat, the sound sending a shiver down my spine.
He’s pleasuring himself.
After he told me we wouldn’t have sex.
Clearly, something stirred him to arousal. But he didn’t try anything with me.
I told him he could touch me. And considering how uncomfortable he’d seemed sharing a bed, I’m starting to think he finds me attractive. Maybe very attractive?
Which means… he’s doing this out of respect for me?
I watch his hands expertly work his own body, sliding along his shaft, squeezing his balls, as his cock grows stiffer, angrier. He’s breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, his entire body tensed, his muscles tight, as he teases himself.
As his fingers slide up and down, his cock responds, standing up tall, his hips flexing restlessly, his swollen sac tightening. He looks every inch the virile man he is, primed, aroused, and probably aching to ejaculate.
And here he is, alone.
I’m utterly fascinated by this.
Troy never put my comfort, my feelings of safety and security, much less happiness, before his own pleasure. I knew that was wrong. Eventually, I admitted it to myself.
But I’ve still never experienced anything different.
It’s eye-opening.
Moving, in a way I can’t explain.
There’s a part of me that knows I should go back to bed, stop watching this. But there’s no way I can tear myself away as my heartbeat thuds in my throat.
I wasn’t joking that I’m a voyeur. I love to watch.
It was one of my favorite things, watching Troy masturbate.
Of course, Troy always knew I was there, watching. He liked putting on a show for me.
Right up until the day he put on his final show—not solo—and I walked away.
Guilt trips through me; I don’t want to think about that now.
I also don’t want to betray Jameson’s trust.
But still, I can’t back away.
He knows there’s no door. And I try to convince myself that there’s some small part of him that knows I could walk in on this, that I might watch. That in that knowledge, he’s wordlessly consenting to let me watch.
If he wanted total privacy, he’d go into the room with the toilet, right?
But he doesn’t.
And I’ve never watched a guy touch himself like that before.
Drawing it out. Stroking so deliberately, so slowly, reveling in the feel of his own fingers sliding from root to tip and back again.
A groan rumbles in his throat, and his cock jerks. He wraps his hand around his shaft and slows way down.
And I wonder what he’s thinking.
I try to imagine how that thick shaft with the fat, blunt head would feel, shoving into me instead of his hand. Forcing me open, stretching me. Pummeling into me, over and over, as those heavy balls slap against me.
His breath catches on another stifled groan as he squeezes the wide base of his shaft in his fist. The hard length jerks again, and my core contracts with longing.
His hips buck, grinding his thighs against the counter… like he’s imagining grinding into something else.