14. No. 28 Come whilst fully clothed #2
“I’m sorry, sunshine.” He sighs once he’s composed himself, not sounding sorry at all.
“I just wasn’t expecting such filth from our newest candy-sweet resident.
” He reaches up and pinches a strand of my pink hair between his thumb and forefinger.
When he drops his hand back again, it lands on my thigh and he keeps it there, my stomach flops.
He must see a shift in my expression because his own easy smile slowly fades as he keeps his eyes on mine, the reality of our positions dawning on both of us and awareness of how surrounded I am by him, of everywhere we’re pushed together, is bubbling over me.
I lean forward slightly to start extracting myself from his lap because this is not a friendly position, but he lets out a soft grunt and I freeze.
My face is next to his, cheek to cheek, my boobs pressed to his massive chest and his hand is still on my thigh, but I don’t move again because I watched him get tackled to the ground today and go crashing through a table.
“Did I hurt you?” I ask, my voice wobbling slightly.
He doesn’t answer straight away. I feel the deep rise and fall of his broad chest and his fingers flex against the giving flesh of my thigh.
My heart is going a mile a minute, my breathing shallow as my mouth dries, I can smell the woodsy scent of him mixed with the surprisingly floral notes of his washing powder.
I’m so close that the slightest movement scrapes his overgrown stubble against my cheek, the sensation following through with a dull pulse between my legs.
He turns slightly so his lips are by my cheek.
“No, you didn’t hurt me.” It’s barely more than a whisper against my skin and I shiver, the hairs at the back of my neck standing on end.
The hand on my leg moves slowly, cautiously, up until he’s curled around my hip.
I pull back slightly to look down into his molten eyes as his other hand mirrors the first, gripping both my hips.
Keeping his gaze intent on mine, a silent question between us, he guides my hips down in a slow, hard grind against his lap.
My breath stutters out of me, my eyes falling closed as my delicate panties and the thin fabric of my leggings do absolutely nothing to block the roughness and firmness of his shorts zipper as I slide the length of my slit over him.
“August,” I breath, eyes opening again. Shit, did he even mean to do that? Or am I a creep trying to use him while he’s just waiting for me to let him up.
One look at his face confirms he doesn’t want me anywhere but where I am.
Lust and heat swirl in his eyes as they bounce between my eyes and my mouth.
I wonder if I should lean down and press my lips to his when he moves me again, the same sensually slow grind that ignites my nerves and has moisture pooling between my spread legs.
If we stay like this much longer, he’s going to have a wet patch on his groin, and the thought pulls a moan from my throat.
His eyes widen, lips parting, then he’s moving me faster, continuously, building a rhythm that has my clit hitting a crease on his shorts in just the right way.
Oh god, I’m going to get off. I can feel his hardening length trapped against his leg and I move myself back a little so I’m rubbing myself over his dick.
“Fuck,” he hisses out, his head falling back and his fingers digging into my sides so hard, I think I might bruise.
That thought sends another flood of arousal to my desperate pussy.
He’s no longer guiding my movements, my hips are gyrating of their own accord, humping his leg because I couldn’t possibly stop if I tried.
I’m too close, too lost to the pleasure building in my centre, ready to burst.
“August, I’m going to…” I whimper.
He lifts his head, opening his eyes to look at me before wrapping his arms around me fully and burying his head in my cleavage.
I wore my Good Girls Read t-shirt this morning because I thought it went with the bookish theme of my café.
But now, I’m grateful as it’s a low v-cut and my hot neighbour’s lips are brushing over the swell of my breasts, his tongue coming out to swipe between them.
“Oh god,” I cry out as my orgasm hits, a shudder of pleasure racking over my body.
“Fuck, sunshine,” he groans beneath me, his hold on me going slack and his breathing rough and moist against my skin.
Holy shit, did he just…? I pull back again to look at him but instead of sated comfort, he looks…
panicked. I push away from him more, giving him space to breathe.
What did I do wrong? He clears his throat and gently helps me off of him until I’m sat back on the couch next to him.
Yep, there’s a large dark mark on his leg. I don’t think that’s just from me.
August stands, clearing his throat. “I, uh…I should go,” he says, then makes a sharp whistle that has Darcy standing to attention, much to Heathcliff’s chagrin.
“Oh.” He’s leaving?
Yep. He’s out the door, it clunking closed behind him, and I’m left reeling on my couch with damp panties and stubble rash on my chest, feeling like I’ve fucked everything up but unsure why.