27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Elowen Briar
Fantasizing Something That Is SO Not Happening Any Time Soon
Ilay the screen of my phone face down on the cushion beside me. My center was pulsing with need and dripping with want. It’s the persistent ache blooming deep within my core. My need has nothing to do with the dry spell I’ve been experiencing.
It’s just him, the large man from the bookstore who metaphorically swooped in and saved me. The couch swallows me whole. The worn fabric of my leggings suddenly is too close to my skin. My silk panties are too much of a barrier between me and the relief I crave.
Beau.
His name alone hums through me. There’s a primal, undeniable pull I’d felt from the moment our eyes first met. This isn’t just an attraction. It’s a deep, almost gravitational force, as if he exists on a different plane, his very presence capable of bending my reality.
My hand slips, unbidden beneath the hem of my leggings.
My fingers graze the damp heat already seeping through the fabric.
A low, guttural hum escapes my throat. I move my hips in a slow, grinding motion against my own touch, but wishing it was his instead.
The friction only intensifies the ache. I wish he would’ve acted on his words. No rebuttal. No space.
I close my eyes as Beau’s face begins materializing behind my lids.
I can picture his dark eyes holding a power that promises to consume me.
I want him to take me, to push me past the edge of control, to make me forget everything but the blinding pleasure that only he can inflict.
My fingers press harder, finding my clit, circling it, teasing it with continual strokes.
My breath is harder to take as my chest rises and falls in rapid bursts.
My hips begin to undulate with a rhythmic rocking as my fingers work faster with urgency.
The sound of how wet I am is muffled by the leggings, but I can feel it dripping down me.
I want him to be the strike that promises my release, himself.
My clit grows taut, exquisitely sensitive.
With each stroke a jolt of pure sensation shoots through me and up my spine, almost into the base of my skull.
I picture his strong hands gripping my hips as he fucks me relentlessly.
I don’t even need my vibrator as long as I have his image.
I just know he would talk me through it.
I step so far into the memory of him I can almost feel his cock pressing against my center and finally sliding inside, filling me completely. I want to hand over my control to him, to have my legs spread wide by his command.
"Fuck," I moan, tearing from the base of my throat.
My body begins to tremble, a delicious tremor that starts in my thighs and spreads throughout me.
My fingers are relentless now, a blur of motion as I let out fast and tight breaths.
The friction builds, a searing heat that promises to explode.
My inner thighs clench, my stomach muscles tightening as my body braces for the inevitable.
My hips rise higher, seeking more pressure, more depth.
"Please. Beau…" I gasp, his name a ragged whisper.
The pleasure becomes a sharp, unbearable point, a singular focus that consumes my entire being.
My legs clamp together, squeezing my hand between my thighs, intensifying the pressure on my clit.
My whole body convulses, a wave of pure, hot ecstasy washing over me, contracting, releasing, contracting again.
My breath catches, then bursts out in a ragged, drawn-out sigh.
The aftershocks ripple through me, leaving my muscles quivering, my mind hazy.
I lay, spent, my fingers still nestled between my legs.
Even in the aftermath, the phantom weight of his presence lingers.
I glance back at my phone to read the message he had sent.
Because a text and that bombshell in the bookstore is as close as I’m getting to my fantasy for now.