Chapter 21
Liam
We stare at each other for a long moment as if neither one of us can believe what just happened.
I don't recall a moment in my life, even as a teenager, that I was able to come without touching my cock.
Maybe it's because I never resisted the urge before.
It's possible I’ve always had the ability, but I highly doubt it.
She's the reason for this. The way she moaned, the way she looked surprised that riding that toy felt so good.
I can't pull my eyes away from her as she lifts herself off that fake cock. My own dick hasn't flagged at all. I don't know that it will anytime soon. The drop I always experience after coming hasn’t happened yet.
“Can we watch more of that baking show?” she asks as if she's not only two minutes past her eyes rolling in the back of her head as she came.
“After we shower,” I answer as I climb off the bed. That Black cock is glistening, covered in her arousal, and I know that if I don't step around her and head to the bathroom, I'm going to do something really fucking stupid with it.
I figure I can get a shower first. I can be quick and efficient and then she can take all the time she needs. Her footsteps follow close behind me as I reach into the shower to turn the water on. I freeze after stepping inside before I can tilt my head back underneath the spray.
She's carrying the dildo into the bathroom. And of course I'm still hard as I watch her wash it in the sink. Bubbles cover her hands and the cock as she strokes up and down it. She's not doing it to impress me. She's not doing it to turn me on.
But it doesn't matter. God, I want her hands on me. I want her mouth on me. I want to swallow her moans. I want to taste and lick and nip and bite every inch of her body—the backs of her knees, the tops of her thighs, her shoulders. I want to suck on her fingers.
“Goddammit,” I grumble, finally tilting my head back into the water.
I'm reaching for the shampoo when she smacks the dildo onto the countertop.
The suction cup takes hold, and it wiggles back and forth as if taunting her when she releases it.
But she doesn't hesitate to turn to face the shower.
She doesn't pause her steps as she walks closer.
And of course my cock is still hard. I may die with an erection at this point.
She's careful not to touch me as she slides past me and turns on the shower head opposite of the one I'm standing under. We've never done this before. We've never shared the shower. I've never threatened her with it, despite wanting to every single time she's in here alone.
She's not trying to turn me on but it doesn't take much these days. A sleepy smile, a yawn, the way her lips wrap around a fresh strawberry as she watches television. She's torturing me and I don't even think she knows it.
There's no medical reason for my cock to still be pointing at her. I came so hard watching her that it should have flagged already. It's unsatisfied despite the pleasure it felt earlier.
“I'm sorry,” I tell her, apologizing for the first time in a very long time. I have to. I grip my cock, stroking it as I glare at her. I'm not mad or angry. I'm not upset. If anything, I'm confused because I don't understand why she makes me feel the way that I feel.
I mean, yeah, she's beautiful. Her body is fucking phenomenal. But she's not the first beautiful woman I've seen with a phenomenal body. It's not the way she looks. Her good looks don't hurt but that's not what's making me feel this way. It's her, just her.
“I know,” she says softly. “It looks painful.”
Does she care that I may be in pain? It becomes obviously clear that she doesn’t.
As she starts to shower, she pays no attention to me, no attention to my hand despite me assuming earlier that’s exactly what she wanted.
It irritates me because I would never be strong enough to turn around and not watch if the roles were reversed.
If she were pleasing herself, my eyes would be locked on her hand or on her jiggling tits or on the way her mouth hangs open before she comes.
“Turn around,” I command, and the second she does, I erupt. I splash her skin with jizz, glaring into her eyes, challenging her to argue, daring her to open her mouth and say something about it. I don’t apologize this time before climbing out and grabbing a towel.
I storm from the bathroom, but being in the bedroom just isn’t enough.
I need more distance. I have to leave the room completely, of course making sure it’s locked before I go.
I’m diligent about making sure that the door closes behind me, that I don't step away until I hear the mechanism whir inside, ensuring that it's locked.
The clock on the wall reads two a.m. and I'm honestly surprised that it's been two hours since I came out here to get that toy. It seems like it was over too fast. And although she gave me everything I was expecting, it somehow has ended up not being enough.
That toy has been on my brain all day since it was delivered around noon.
Just knowing that it was in the house has taunted me beyond measure.
I thought I'd be able to hold out longer than half a day to show it to her.
But now I'm glad that I didn't. It was spectacular.
Better than I ever could have imagined. And I'm a greedy fuck who wants to watch it over and over and over again.
My stomach growls as I enter the kitchen but even my hunger doesn't shove away the guilt I feel for speaking to her the way I just did.
It's not like I can make her crave me the way I crave her.
It's not like I can force her to want me the way I force her to come. I know I won’t apologize as I grab snacks and head back to the bedroom.
I already did that once today. And that's once more than I ever presumed I would in my lifetime.
I cradle various bags of snacks to my chest as I open the bedroom door, wondering if this is the moment she loses that control she's so good at holding on to. But when I swing the door open wide, nothing comes flying at my head. She's sitting on the bed, watching me as I enter. She has the covers pulled up around her hips, perfect fucking tits on display, and she looks more confused than angry. It’s as if she wants to ask me what just happened, but I know she won’t.
She’s never gotten comfortable enough to question my actions. Maybe she’s still afraid of me.
The coffee table is already back in its original spot on the far side of the room, in front of the couch.
I don't know how I feel about the room being put back in order as if nothing happened.
I don't know if I overreacted in the shower.
I don't know if she's confused at why I acted that way.
I don't know if it was a power play on her part.
All I know is that this sense of guilt that I feel is entirely unwelcomed.
I don't say a word before turning around and walking back out of the room.
I don't bother closing the door. She couldn't escape if she tried and I think that she's realized that as well.
But just in case, I know I can trust the biometric lock that's on the front door.
That's the only way out of this place. I drop the snacks back on the counter, not considering the thought that making her something heartier to eat is just one more form of an apology that I refuse to let escape my lips.
I stay on high alert for a few minutes as I rummage around in the pantry.
There may come a time where she tries to find a weapon to hurt me with but keeping her locked in the room forever isn't likely either.
I'm confident enough in my skills that I would be able to strong-arm her and get any weapon of her choosing away from her before it caused any real damage.
I know that I need to be less concerned about the physical damage that she may cause and focus more on how she's completely turned my life upside down.
But I don't have a hundred years to analyze all of that information.