Page 87 of Phobia
No one had bought this from me.
Henry’s finger pushed against me more insistently, and despite the lack of lube, there was barely any resistance as he slipped the pad of his middle finger inside me. It hurt a little, the dry skin clinging as a ragged gasp left my lips. I liked the sting. The wrongness of it.
How was he so good at this?
He’d never done it before—
It didn’t—
Ugh. Shit.Fuck. He pushed a little deeper, and I hissed.
“Dry,” Henry huffed, almost mournfully. He let the tip of his finger stay inside me though the disappointment he felt was palpable in the air.
I had two choices.
It was clear…given the state of things…we could not continue. I could let it end. We could be done. We’d already done irreparable damage to our relationship—there was no…no…
No.
Option two.
It had to be option two.
I could tell him what exactly it was that I’d stolen from Lord Wishfell’s pocket.
“Henry,” his name was barely a whisper on my lips as I whimpered and clutched at his finger, wanting more, more, more. There was no denying that now. I craved him. I craved him so deep inside me I was sure the ache would never be filled.
“What is it, Oliver?” Again. His posh voice sent a shiver down my spine.
“My pocket—” God, the words didn’t want to come out. “Left pocket. I’ve got…” I shuddered all over. “Lube—”
“What?” Henry grew stiff, confused. The tongue that had been tracing my ear retreated as he pulled far enough away he could catch my eye again. “Why in God’s name do you have lube in your—”
“Does it matter?” I flushed, bright red. Imagining the night I’d planned for myself as soon as I’d gone home from the party. The way I’d wanted to spread out, and slip my fingers up inside in a way I never had before—no. No. He didn’t need to know that. Better he think I was a slut who had brought lube to a party hoping to be fucked, rather than a lonely boy who’d seen the damn bottle and thought…maybe—just this once—he could have something for himself.
Something to make him feel good.
Sex that was his, and his alone.
“No,” Henry admitted, already reaching for my pocket. So long as he got his cock inside me, I don’t think either of us cared about logistics. He pulled the little bottle out with a quiet huff, opened it with a click, and mere moments later the cool slippery substance was rubbing, rubbing, rubbing all over my twitchy opening.
“Fuck,” I whimpered, arching my back and pressing into the questing touch. If the dry tease of his fingertip had been good before, this was surely heaven.
“Let me know if I’m doing it wrong,” Henry sounded somehow even more breathless than I did. His voice was full of wonder, and I opened an eye to watch him, enamored with the way he was biting his tongue in concentration as he slicked up my opening and pressed the tip of his finger against it for the second time that night.
Our gazes met as he pushed inside me, and we groaned in tandem as my eyes rolled back and my dick leaked. Fingering me with his hand inside the back of my pants, was probably not the most comfortable position on the wrist, but Henry didn’t seem to mind.
The steady push, glide was much smoother this time around. The stinging was gone too, and I whined, unable to help the way I pushed back against him, sucking him inside my body gluttonously.
“God, you’re a slut for this, aren’t you?” Henry murmured, amazement coloring his tone. I nodded my head, unable to do much else, because God—he was right. I was. I was a goddamn slut for this—and I— “That’s it, Oliver.” Henry crooned, sweet and a little awkward, and all kinds of good as he slipped so far inside me his knuckle brushed my ass. “Let me have you.”
His sugary words shouldn’t have made me melt the way they did.
They should’ve pissed me off, especially because he didn’t know I was a virgin, just like he was.
But they didn’t.
Instead it just made them seem more honest. More sincere.
