Page 39 of Even Robots Die
“I’m not lying for fucking sake,” I counter, but his hands drop on my knees and the warmth of them against my skin spreads all over my body and straight to my pussy.
“Stop,” I tell him, but even I can hear in my own voice that the word is half-assed.
I feel Brice’s hands slide on the outside of my thighs and look down as he slips them under the hem of my sleeping shorts.
Fuck.
Why am I so hot?
I blame it on the fuzziness of my brain due to me being about to fall asleep mere seconds ago for not really stopping the man, but it’s no good.
It’s no good because it feels so good and I’m not sure I want to stop him.
I look at Brice, and I’m mesmerized by the green of his eyes and the tip of his tongue as it slips out of his mouth and wets his bottom lip.
Slowly, Brice slides his fingers all the way under the hem of my shorts from the sides of my thighs and then even more slowly, he glides them along the crease at the top of my thigh, running his fingers from my hips and down.
And I’m here, on my bed, hands planted and arms at my back, holding me up as I look at the man who infuriates me, slowly toying with me.
I realize that once again he’s driving me mad.
But this time it’s the kind of mad I might be willing to taste and I know I could stop him.
Or that I could really tell him I don’t want this and he would listen, but like I proved less than a minute ago, I don’t really think I want to stop him.
So I let him stroke my skin tantalizingly slowly and I enjoy the feel of his fingers getting closer and closer to my wet pussy.
I want to rush him. I want to tear my shirt off. I want to make him plunge his fingers inside of me. I want his mouth on me. I want this torture to end so he finally makes me come.
But all I do is look at him as hunger becomes all that shows on his face and all I feel inside of me.
God, I really, really need to come.
24
Florentine
Iwake up with a start. Sweating and still wrapped like a burrito in my blanket.
It takes me a second to remember where I am and what just happened.
It was just a dream.
A very vivid dream, but still just a dream.
I rub my eyes with the heel of my palms.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
The man does one nice thing, one single freaking thing, and my poor sleep—and affection—deprived brain jumps to conclusions.
And what kind of conclusions does it jump to?
Wet dreams!
For fucking sake.
Why does it make me feel so desperate?
