Page 70 of Ruin Me Gently

Like I wasn’t a thirty-four-year-old man that’d spent years keeping himself in check.

But my body had a mind of its own. Andit was aching, bad.

I shifted, gritting my teeth as the throbbing between my legs made itself impossible to ignore. Hard enough to hurt, pressed tight against my boxers, every tiny drag of fabric sending sharp, agonising jolts through me.

I exhaled sharply, lifting my head to glare down at the very source of my problems.

“You can fucking stop that right now.”

Nothing. Not even a twitch of compliance. Little shit.

The second I stepped into the shower, the freezing cold water hit like a slab of ice to the chest, a sharp, punishing shock that sent every capillary, vein and muscle locking up. I needed it. Needed the freeze, the clarity, the reminder that I was in control here, not whatever depraved bullshit my subconscious had been feeding me all night.

Slowly, the throbbing between my legs dulled, my cock softening under the relentless stream of freezing water. My breath evened out, but the tension in my chest? That stayed.

She wanted to see my face. But that was off-limits. That meant she’dknowme. And that was a one-way track to pain.

But I’d panicked. Convinced myself it wouldn’t hurt to give her something. A compromise. A glimpse. Just my body. That was all.

So I’d sent it. The picture. My chest, my abs, the ink marking my skin. A small offering.

I thought that’d be it. That she’d take it and be satisfied. That it would stop her curiosity.

But no. The devious little witch had sent one right back.

Her ass.

Fuck.Fuck.

The photo had been dimly lit, shadows curling over the curve of her bare skin, making the shape of her even more devastating. No underwear. Nothing but smooth, perfect flesh. I’d studied it for hours. It was the best damn ass I’d ever seen. Full. Soft. A masterpiece of a body that I already knew would feel like heaven under my hands.

My brain had been stuck in the same vicious loop all damn night.

Bite marks. Bruises. Tongue tracing the curve of her spine, hands gripping, kneading, worshipping every inch.

I wanted to pull her underwear down with my teeth. Spread her open. Wrap my arms around her thighs. Drag my mouth over every inch, licking, sucking and devouring, until she had to push me away because she couldn’t physically take any more.

I wanted to be on my knees, I wanted her to use me. To shove me back. Ride my face. Grind down until I was drowning, until I was begging for more.

And then I wanted to flip her over, press her down, and fuck her senseless.

Not hard. Not rough. But deep. Slow. Worshipping.

Oh, and the damn vibrator. Lying in full viewon her bed.

Had she used it right after? Had she looked at my picture, parted those pretty thighs, touched herself, made herself come with thatthingwhile thinking of me?

The thought sent a fresh wave of heat clawing through my stomach despite the freezing water, and my cock pulsed, already thickening again, blood rushing south like I had no goddamn control over my body.

Eight years.

Eight fucking years of keeping my hands to myself. Of avoiding situations that could lead to something more. Of making sure I never slipped, never let anything or anyone in.

Even touching myself had become pointless. There was no relief. No satisfaction. Just an empty, mechanical motion that felt more like a reminder of everything I wouldn’t let myself have. The pleasure never lasted. It never filled the space it was supposed to.

Because it was never just about sex. Never just about getting off. Of course Ilikedsex. But it was what came after—the shift. The expectation. The emotional offering they wanted from me.

And I could never give that. Never wanted to.

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