Chapter 14 Ozzy
FOURTEEN
OZZY
I wake up hard. Yes… that kind of fucking hard.
The sheets are tangled around my legs, morning light slicing through the half-closed blinds in thin, gold strips across the bed. The other side of the bed is empty and for a second the absence hits like a punch. Salem’s not here.
Last night’s dream clings to me like sweat.
Her mouth on mine, soft at first, then hungry.
The way she tasted—sweet, desperate, like she’d been starving for it too.
Her hands sliding up under my shirt, nails dragging over my ribs while I pinned her against the wall, hips grinding slow until she whimpered my name against my tongue.
I can still feel the phantom heat of her thighs wrapped around my waist, the slick drag of her body when I finally pushed inside.
Fuck.
I’m throbbing under the sheet, cock so stiff it hurts, leaking against my stomach. I press the heel of my hand down hard, trying to buy a minute of control, but it only makes it worse. Every pulse reminds me how bad I want her. How long I’ve been walking around with this ache.
Where is she?
I listen. The house is quiet except for the faint clink of a mug, the low gurgle of the coffee maker, the soft shuffle of bare feet on tile.
Kitchen. She’s in the kitchen. Probably wearing one of my old T-shirts again, the hem skimming the tops of her thighs, hair messy from sleep. The image alone makes my dick jump.
I could go in there. Walk up behind her while she’s pouring coffee, slide my hands under that shirt, cup her breasts, press my erection against her ass until she gasps and arches back into me.
I could lift her onto the counter, spread her legs, bury my face between them until she’s shaking and begging.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
I can’t trust myself right now. One wrong move and I’ll snap. I’ll push too hard, too fast, scare her when she’s still carrying fear in her shoulders. She needs safety more than she needs me rutting against her like a wild animal.
So I force myself out of bed. The hardwood is cold under my feet. My cock bobs painfully with every step toward the bathroom, heavy and flushed dark at the tip. I shut the door, lock it, lean my forehead against the cool tile wall for a second and breathe.
Shower. Cold. That’s the plan.
Except the second the water hits my skin—warm, not cold—I’m gone.
I brace one hand on the wall, let the spray pound my shoulders, and wrap my fist around myself. Slow at first. Root to tip. The soap makes it slick. My thumb drags over the head on every upstroke, spreading the precum that’s already beading again.
I picture her.
Salem on her knees in front of me, lips parted, tongue flicking out to taste the slit before she takes me deep. Her eyes locked on mine while she sucks, cheeks hollowed, throat working around me. The little moan she’d make when I hit the back of her throat. Fuck, that sound.
I speed up. Water sluices down my chest, my abs, over my knuckles as I stroke harder.
I imagine flipping her onto her stomach on the bed, yanking her hips up, spreading her open with my thumbs so I can see how wet she is for me.
Pink and glistening. I’d tease her first. I’d rub the head of my cock through her pussy, making her whine and push back, and then I’d slam home in one rough thrust. Her cry muffled in the pillow.
Her walls fluttering, clenching, milking me while I fuck her deep and relentless.
“Ozzy—” I can hear her say it, breathy, broken. “Please—harder—”
My balls draw up tight. Heat coils low and vicious. I grip the base hard, trying to hold it off, but the fantasy keeps coming.
Her riding me now. Straddling my hips, hands braced on my chest, tits bouncing with every roll of her hips. She’s soaked, dripping down my shaft, coating my balls. I’d grab her ass, spread her wider, watch myself disappear inside her over and over while she gasps my name like a prayer.
I’m stroking fast now, fist flying, water slapping against my skin. My breath saws out in harsh pants. The need is everywhere. It’s burning in my gut, pulsing in my cock, and clawing up my spine.
I want to come inside her. Fill her up until it leaks out around me. Want to flip her over after, lick her clean, then do it again. Want to mark every inch of her until she smells like me, tastes like me, carries me inside her for days.
A low groan rips out of my throat. My hips jerk forward into my hand. Once. Twice.
“Fuck—Salem—”
I come hard. Thick ropes spill over my fist, splatter against the tile, washed away instantly by the spray. My knees nearly buckle. Pleasure spikes so sharp it’s almost painful, rolling through me in brutal waves until I’m shaking, forehead pressed to the wall, breath ragged.
It’s not enough.
The ache dulls for maybe thirty seconds, then creeps back in, heavier than before. Every day it gets worse.
I soap up, and rinse off. I shut the water off, stepping out, and toweling off hard.
She’s still out there. Probably sipping coffee, maybe humming under her breath, completely unaware that I just came so hard I saw stars thinking about burying myself in her until neither of us could move.
I pull on boxers, then sweats. I take one last steadying breath.
I can do this. I can walk out there, smile, act normal. Pretend the only thing I want is a cup of coffee. But God help me, the second she looks at me with those eyes, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep lying to both of us.