A Midnight Blunder #2
He’s a mixture of lean and muscle. Not as muscly as Tristan, but definitely enough definition to be scandalously titillating.
I’ve always been a fiend for arms. I don’t know why; I’ve always thought defined arms are mouthwatering, and Marcus’s are damn near the most perfect set of arms I’ve ever seen.
He’s just toned enough, his shoulders just wide enough, his muscles the perfect size, the softness of his skin exactly how it should be, and those bulging veins that run along his forearms just enough to be tantalizing.
And don’t get me started on his hands. His skin is so soft, and yet firm at the same time, the most delectable combination of smooth and rough to feel his touch and sink straight into it.
But mostly, it’s his fingers. Long, graceful.
The way they curl around anything they’re holding, and the deep-seated longing to know what those fingers feel like inside of me, and to know what they taste like.
With that, my resolve is gone. Did I even put up a fight?
It doesn’t really feel like I did, but at least I’m not going to run down the hall and bang his door down all hungry for kisses and desperate for his fingers.
Mine will have to suffice. I drop the phone somewhere to the side of me.
I don’t need it anymore; the image of him is seared into my head, along with the imagination that is so helpfully filling in the blanks.
I make quick work of my skirt and pants, and it’s a simple flurry of movements and shimmying to get them off before my hand blissfully wraps around my dick.
The pressure is such a relief after trying, and failing miserably, to deny myself this.
A breathy whimper escapes my throat, and my eyes flutter closed at the heady touch.
The sound of his voice assails me. His flirty insinuations and that deep, rumbly, sexy as fuck tone fill my head with sinful promises of what it’d feel like if I let him have his way. His name slips between my lips, and my synapses light up at the mere sound of it, even if it was spoken by me.
My hand doesn’t really need all that much guidance.
My dick knows what it wants, and my hand knows how to give it that.
In no time at all, I’ve got a good rhythm going, and pleasurable neurons are firing through every part of my body, but it’s not enough.
The image of his fingers filling me is still up front and center in my brain, and I need that full feeling to really curb the neediness thrumming through me.
Too desperate and needy, I ignore the dildo that’s tucked away in my nightstand and thrust my fingers in my mouth deftly, slicking them with my tongue and imagining what it would have felt like if I’d taken him up on his offer to gag me with his cock.
The mere thought of him down my throat, filling my mouth, his taste, his smell permeating every part of me, almost had me dropping to my knees in front of him right then and there.
The images assault me again, amping up the desire that’s taking up every inch of space inside of my body, mind, and soul.
With fingers slicked and ready to go, I plant my feet on the edge of the bed and circle my hole, slowly inserting them one at a time.
The sensations blaze through me, creating a space in my mind where the sensation is physical, the fuel that ignites my desires is in my imagination, and they immerse me somewhere between reality and fantasy.
My touch becomes his fingers, my heavy breathing changes to become his.
Part of me remembers that he’s not here to see this, and the walls are soundproof, so he can’t hear me.
Instead of the breathy whisper of his name that I let out earlier, I give in to the more needy, more frenzied moan that’s been desperately crawling up my throat and waiting to be released since the moment I gave in to my arousal.
As reality bleeds into fantasy, I can practically hear Marcus’s flirty voice in my ear, telling me to moan for him, the tangible quality of it almost jarring, but instead of pulling me out of my senses, it plunges me deeper.
My stomach clenches with impending release; the heavy breathing from my imagination intertwines hazily with my own.
As my peak draws near, there’s a quiver in my moans, and Marcus’s sexy ass voice tells me to come for him.
The fantasy is so real that it has heat spiking up my spine, and I come almost violently into my hand.
A long, blissful, broken moan of ‘fuck’ punches its way out of me while enjoying the weightless suspension of satisfaction, and that’s when I hear it: a steady cadence of heavy breath that is most definitely not mine, and most definitely not imagined.
My heart leaps to my throat while my fingers fumble towards the sound and brush across my phone. Oh fuck, please tell me I closed out of the phone before I dropped it. Oh god, please no. My brain pleads with the universe while I pick up my phone.
Sure as shit, the text thread between us is still on the screen, and somewhere along the lines, I had accidentally called him. A wave of humiliation washes over me because I never deliberately unlocked my phone to make that call, which means he’s been on the line the whole time.
How did I not hear it ring? Or him pick up? Or was it so obvious what I was doing when he answered that he just stayed silent, and then decided to help me out along the way?
I have no idea; all I know is the throaty pleas I thought I’d imagined had been real and Marcus had been an active participant during my solo time session, along with bearing witness to the million times I breathed out his name.
Mortification spreads through me like a wildfire, and with an abysmal cry of ‘oh fuck, no’, I end the call. What in the actual fuck am I gonna do now? Because I know there is no way in hell he’s going to let that slide.