Page 111 of Trust Me Always

Cameron.Stop. Jesus.

Brady is asleep, but sleep is the furthest thing from my mind.

I’m overheating and losing the battle with my willpower—or lack thereof.

My eyes stay shut, but my mind is in marathon mode and shows no sign of slowing down. It’s full force ahead with no finish line in sight.

I have no idea how much time passes, but his every exhale rolls over my skin. It’s warm and enticing, a tingling sensation that starts at the nape of my neck and prickles its way down.

Suddenly, I’m not just warm and cozy.

I’m hot all over, and this time, it has nothing to do with a fucking fever.

My body, it’s aching, my pussy begging to be put out of her misery, the need his mouth created doubling down with the feel of his bare legs tangled with mine.

God, what would he say if he knew? What the hell is wrong with me?

This is Brady!

My Brady.

Maybe it’s not about him exactly but more my body’s natural reaction to being touched. To be fair, it has been a while.

My eyes flick open at the thought.

Oh my god. It’s been a hot minute for me, yeah, but I’ve gone months without sex, and it was no big thing, but Brady?

This must feel like a lifetime to him. It has to be some sort of record for my insatiable friend.

I wonder if he fucks his hand often.

Aaand now I’m thinking about him stroking himself, taking his thick dick in his massive hand and tugging the way he likes. I bet he’s a firm-grip kind of guy. The kind who likes you to take him by the balls and squeeze while you bite at the tip—when giving head, I mean. I’ve got a long neck, so my head game is strong.

I wonder if I could take all of him.

OMG, off track. Stop thinking about deep throating the man who knows you used to piss your pants as a little girl.

I close my eyes again, letting out a long, controlled sigh in an attempt to send a wave through my brain that will wash the images flashing around away.

It doesn’t help, and I drift back to thoughts of him pleasuring himself.

I guarantee he takes himself hard and fast but probably stops right before he’s about to come, waiting for the burning to ease before starting all over again. Yeah, he’s definitely that sweet, sweet torture type. The kill-me-softly sort of man.

I wonder if he’s a cucumber or an eggplant. Straight and solid or curved and firm.

I bet he sounds like a wild animal when he comes, all throaty and chest deep and…God, my god, Cameron, what the hell!

Stop it.

Except I can’t.

I can fucking see it, and when I close my eyes this time, the images only become more vivid. Brady with his head thrown back, that plump, plush lip—the color you get when you’ve been eating pomegranate seeds—between his teeth. Eyes screwed shuttightly and muscles clamping, every inch of his body primed and prepped for release. And right before he comes, his long-lashed eyes flick open, buttery-brown gaze locking on mine.

My core pulses, and before I know what I’m doing, my hand is between my legs.

I toy with myself first, the pads of my fingers brushing teasingly over my clit and making my toes curl. I ease a little lower, sliding one finger through my slit, and I bite into my cheek at the wanton feeling that blooms inside me.

Eyes still closed, I get lost in my imagination, my fingers swirling slightly, playing the torturous role tonight to match my fantasy of the man behind me.

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