Chapter 11 #2
As the hot water runs over me and I fist my cock into my hand, I can’t help but imagine that it’s Sierra’s hand and we’re back on that couch.
The visions take over my thoughts as I picture how that whole scene could have played out if it were real life.
And despite how hard I am, how badly I need to come, I chase that orgasm for too long before I feel that tingling at the base of my spine.
I continue to slide my hand up and down my shaft almost violently as I picture what could have been, what maybe could be, if we weren’t such different people who wanted such different things.
And when my release finally happens, I feel more pissed off than sated, because sometimes reality is such a fucking disappointment.
SIERRA
There’s an empty aching between my legs when I open my eyes. It takes me a minute to realize where I am: on the couch where I fell asleep in Beau’s arms, but now I’m alone. My vagina clenches violently, the need to be filled rushing over me. What the hell?
I blink again, taking in the faint rays of light seeping through the wooden blinds on the opposite wall of the living room.
I close my eyes and images of Beau and me on this couch fill my head.
The vision of straddling him—riding him hard as he cups my breasts in his hands and sucks my nipple into his mouth—fills my mind so sharply it’s like a memory rather than a desire.
My core clenches again, and I close my eyes, picturing myself sliding up and down him, the way he looked at me with longing and appreciation as he worshipped my body.
That’s the kind of sex I need, not just in my dreams, but in real life, I think to myself as I roll onto my back.
That’s when I realize that my left hand is cupped around my right breast. And not just because I was sleeping curled up on my side.
No, my hand is inside my bra, my nipple is pinched between two fingers and as I go to pull my hand out, my fingers graze the hardened peak and I feel that tingling in my belly and that aching in my core.
I hope that I didn’t have my hand in my bra when Beau woke up and went to bed, because what kind of a freak would he think I was if he knew I was touching myself in my sleep. At least he wouldn’t know it was because I was dreaming of him.
My core clenches and my hips contract as my body reminds me that in my dreams I was in the middle of having the best sex of my life.
The kind where I knew what I wanted and my partner knew exactly how to give it to me.
The need to touch myself, to take this edge off and give myself as much pleasure as I can, overwhelms me.
I reach down and start to hike my dress up toward my hips, then I realize I’m on the couch and Beau could wake up and come out here at any minute. I would die of mortification.
So I push myself up off the couch and head to the hallway, planning a date with my vibrator and thanking past Sierra for upgrading to a better model when Peter started traveling so much for work.
Or maybe traveling a lot to fuck his admin, as it turns out.
Whatever. My vibrator gives me far better orgasms than he ever managed to.
Once I hit the hallway, I realize that there is running water coming from the bathroom.
Is there some sort of water leak or is Beau taking a shower at—I glance at my watch—five in the morning?
I pause at the door, wondering if I should knock just to double-check that he’s in there and not that the water was left on in the sink or something.
But the door is fully shut and the light is on, so all signs point to him being in there.
My still-hard nipples tingle as they press against the lace demi bra I’m wearing, reminding me that I was on my way toward my bedroom for a little self-care.
I take one step away from the bathroom door when I hear it—an unmistakable sexual growl.
Oh my God, am I listening to Beau jerk off?
And why is it the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard?
Another low sound emanates from the back of his throat and the only thing I can imagine that would cause that sound is his hand sliding over the hard length of himself.
My body reacts to the mental image accordingly: my underwear is so damp I can feel the moisture on the top of my thighs; there’s a pulling sensation in my core like those muscles are connected to my nipples, which now ache to be touched, licked, sucked; a tremor runs through my whole body, leaving goose bumps in its wake.
I’m fairly certain that if I were to slip my hand into my underwear right now, I would orgasm the second I touch myself.
I eye the door again, wondering who Beau’s thinking about in there.
I briefly entertain the idea of going in and finding out, but that would be a huge violation of trust and of our “don’t be an asshole” roommate agreement.
Because if the situation were reversed and he intentionally walked in on me masturbating in the shower, I’d be livid.
Or would I?
And then there’s another growl, followed by a grunt.
If a sound could be part pain and part pleasure, this would be it.
I give into my aching need and slip my fingers into my underwear, only to find I’m even wetter than I anticipated.
My fingers slide through my folds and bring the moisture up to my clit, circling it once as Beau grunts again.
And right as my orgasm is about to crash over me, Beau knocks something over in the shower and the sound has my whole body going stock-still at the sudden realization of exactly what I’m doing.
I turn away quickly and rush down the hall to my room, wishing my feelings toward Beau weren’t so confusing.
He’s everything I’m not looking for, and yet I’m stupidly attracted to him.
At first it was only sexual attraction, but it feels like it might be morphing into more.
And that’s a path we can’t go down. Even if that’s what I wanted with him, it would be impossible.
The best thing to do, I remind myself as I crawl into my bed and reach over to my nightstand drawer to grab my vibrator, is to not want what you can’t have.