Page 63 of The Final Faceoff
A whimper slips from my lips, my thighs clenching.
I imagine him kneeling between my legs, spreading me open with his hands, his gaze dark and intense as he lines himself up. He’d push in slow, letting me feel every inch, stretching me wide, making me take all of him until I can’t breathe, until I’m gasping, until I’m gripping his shoulders, his arms, his ass—anything to pull him deeper.
He’d thrust slow at first, deep and controlled, dragging it out until I’m shaking beneath him, pleading for more. And then he’d give it to me. He’d fuck me hard, hips snapping forward, his cock pounding into me, hitting that spot that makes my toes curl, makes my nails dig into his back, makes me cry out his name.
I can almost hear it, the sound of skin slapping against skin, the low, wrecked groans he’d let out when I clenched around him, when I begged for him to come inside me.
The vibrator isn’t enough—I want him, need him. I want the weight of him on top of me, his breath hot against my neck, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise as he pounds into me, as he fucks me so deep I forget my own name.
I’m close—so damn close—imagining his voice in my ear, rough and desperate, telling me to come for him, telling me how fucking tight I am, how good I feel around his cock.
My body tightens, pleasure coiling, ready to snap. I bite my lip, arching, my mind lost in him, in how real it feels, in how much I wish it was his name I was moaning as I come undone.
ChapterTwenty
Leif
What to Do When the Stats Don’t Show the Full Story
I stare at the door, my breath still coming too fast, my hands still curled into fists at my sides. I should move, should do something other than stand here, my body coiled so fucking tight I feel like I might snap. But I can’t. Because all I can hear is her moans.
Low, breathy moans, stifled but unmistakable, slipping through the thin walls, creeping under my skin, straight into my bloodstream.
After I was massaging her, she jetted out of here, and now . . . well, now she’s touching herself.
I know it.
I can hear it, clear as fucking day.
I can also imagine her. Her body sprawled out on her bed, her fingers sliding between her thighs, her back arching as she chases relief. Her lips parted, her brows furrowed, her breaths coming in sharp little pants. She’s so desperate for it, she couldn’t even wait. She ran from me, but not to escape—no, she ran so she could do this, so she could sink into her sheets, grab her vibrator, and push herself over the edge with my touch still fresh on her skin.
I could’ve helped her if she asked nicely.
Fuck, just thinking about helping her, touching her the way I really want to . . . heat crawls up the back of my neck, my jaw tight, my cock already so hard it’s painful. I drag my hands down my face, my fingers pressing into my temples like I can somehow force myself to forget what’s happening in the next room. But it’s useless.
I turn on my heel, walking stiffly toward my bathroom and shove the door shut behind me. I twist the shower handle hard, the pipes groaning as cold water blasts from the showerhead. I strip off my clothes, my skin already burning up from the inside out. The second I step under the spray, I know there’s no point in pretending I can just cool off.
Not when my cock is already throbbing, aching, every nerve stretched taut. Not when all I can think about is her—spread out, lost in pleasure, lips parting on sounds that should be mine to pull from her. With my hands. My mouth. My cock.
I press a hand against the cold tile, my head dropping forward, my other hand already wrapping around my length, fingers tightening as I exhale a slow, measured breath. My body is hot, so fucking hot despite the freezing water hitting my skin, but it’s not enough.
I stroke once, slow, from base to tip, imagining her lips wrapped around me, soft and warm, her tongue teasing the head, swirling, sucking, those perfect fucking lips stretched around my cock as she looks up at me with wide, wanting eyes. I pump my fist again, my breath leaving me in a sharp exhale.
I should have grabbed her. Turned her around, stripped her bare, pulled her into my lap, her thighs open for me. I should have slid my hand between them, felt just how fucking soaked she was. Should have pushed my fingers inside, slow at first, teasing, then deeper—until her hips moved against me, until her breath hitched, until she moaned my name like a plea.
Fuck.
My strokes get rougher, my body tightening as my mind keeps unraveling, lost in the fantasy, lost in everything I wanted to do the second my hands touched her bare skin.
I’d have sucked one of her nipples into my mouth, teased it with my teeth, my tongue, made her arch into me, desperate for more. I’d have kissed my way down, pressed her thighs open with my hands, pinned her there as I licked into her, slow and deep, my tongue dragging through her slick heat before latching onto her clit.
I can already hear it, the way she’d gasp, the way she’d whimper my name, how she’d try to grind up into my mouth but I wouldn’t let her. No, I’d hold her down, make her take it exactly the way I want, make her come against my tongue, come on my fingers, cry out and shudder and still be begging for more by the time I finally pressed inside her.
The thought alone is enough to make my abs go tight, the pleasure coiling low, winding, ready to snap.
I imagine pushing into her, slow and deep, stretching her open, her mouth parting, her nails digging into my back, her thighs gripping my hips. She’d be so fucking tight, so fucking wet, and I’d fill her completely, bury myself to the hilt, let her feel every thick, aching inch of me as she clung to me, desperate for more.
I’d fuck her slow at first, make her feel it, make her want it, before giving in to the need, before losing myself in her entirely. I’d fuck her so hard, she’d still feel me the next day, still be aching, still be wet at just the memory of it.
