20. Willow #3
Corey would grip me firmly enough to keep my legs open, then drag his tongue from my entrance to my clit while watching my face. He’d suck until I twisted beneath him, ease off the second I got close, and make me tell him exactly what I wanted.
Stop teasing me.
You’re already shaking.
Put your mouth back on my pussy.
Ask nicely.
“You’re such an asshole,” I whisper, rubbing harder.
You still want my mouth.
“Yes.”
The answer leaves before I can reconsider it.
I close my eyes and let the memory take over. My fingers become his, curling inside me while his mouth works my clit. When I pinch my nipple, I picture his other hand doing it, rolling the sensitive point before dragging his palm down my stomach.
He’d be careful near the baby. Everywhere else, he wouldn’t be.
Look at you. Fucking yourself while you think about me.
“Shut up.”
You want me to watch?
My hips jerk against my hand.
I do.
The admission makes heat rush across my face even though no one can hear it. I picture him sitting in the chair near the curtains, fully dressed, knees apart, green eyes fixed between my legs while I touch myself for him.
Open wider.
I spread my knees until the muscles in my thighs pull.
Show me how wet you are.
My fingers leave my pussy and drag through the slickness coating me before I lift them toward my mouth. I hesitate for half a second, then suck them clean while imagining him watching every movement of my tongue.
Corey would lose his fucking mind.
Good girl. Now put them back inside.
I obey the voice in my head.
Two wet fingers slide deep, and I curl them hard while rubbing my clit with the heel of my hand. Pleasure tightens through my stomach, but I want more pressure than my wrist can give me, so I grab the pillow and fold it between my thighs.
The first grind against the firm fabric sends a jolt through my clit.
“Oh, fuck.”
I brace one hand against the mattress and roll my hips again. Friction spreads across my swollen skin while my fingers continue thrusting inside me, and the combination finally gives me the fullness and pressure I’ve been chasing.
Corey’s voice drops lower in my memory.
That’s it. Keep grinding that pretty pussy.
“Fuck you.”
You’re thinking about it.
I move harder against the pillow, my breasts shifting with each roll of my hips.
I’m thinking about his cock, about him behind me, one large hand gripping my hip while the other reaches around to rub my clit. I know how he would press inside slowly at first, letting me adjust to his size before pulling back and giving me every inch again.
Take it.
My fingers push deeper.
You can take more.
“I know.”
Then show me.
I grind against the pillow and work my fingers faster, letting the mattress absorb the movement while pleasure climbs. Wetness spreads across the fabric beneath me, and the sound of my hand between my legs is explicit enough that I glance toward the locked door.
Corey is close.
He could walk into the hall at any second.
Instead of slowing down, I rub my clit harder.
“Please fuck me,” I whisper.
How?
“Hard.”
Use the whole sentence.
My mouth opens against the pillow as my hips move faster.
“Please fuck me harder.”
That’s my girl.
I bite the pillow to keep it trapped, but a broken sound escapes anyway, and my body tightens around my fingers. Release is close now, pulling every muscle taut while I grind down and chase it.
Corey’s remembered voice stays with me.
Come for me.
“No.”
You’re going to.
“I’m not yours to order around.”
Then come because you fucking want to.
The pleasure breaks.
My whole body locks as the first hard pulse tears through me. My pussy clenches rapidly around my fingers, and I press myself against the pillow while rubbing my clit through every wave. A cry pushes into the fabric beneath my mouth, muffled but still loud enough to make my heart race.
I don’t stop until the sensitivity turns sharp and my legs begin shaking.
When I finally pull my hand away, I collapse onto my side with the damp pillow still between my thighs. My breathing fills the quiet room while the ring settles against my sternum again, cool against overheated skin.
Guilt doesn’t come.
That would be easier than the sadness that takes its place.
I still know exactly how Corey would touch me. My body still responds to the memory of his voice, and part of me wants to unlock the door, cross the hallway, and tell him to finish what I started.
Footsteps enter the hall.
Every muscle in my body tightens at once.
They approach slowly while I push myself upright and drag the sheet over my bare chest. My clothes are still on the floor beside the bed, my fingers are wet, and his name sits close to the surface of my tongue.
The footsteps stop outside.
Corey is right there, separated from me by one locked door and a boundary he refuses to cross without permission.
My heart pounds hard enough to hurt.
He doesn’t knock, but my lips part anyway because one word would bring him inside. One word would put his hands where mine just were and his mouth against mine again.
The floor creaks beneath his weight.
Then his footsteps move away.
I listen until the hallway is silent.
What fills me isn’t relief.