Page 43 of Songbird
I do what he says, massaging my breasts, lifting them and squeezing them, exploring the way my body responds, but I don’t get the zingy zips of lust I felt when I pinched my nipple. Itry it again, then both at the same time, and… Oh! There it is. A pang of pain followed by a warm flood of pulsing need.
“I like it like this,” I tell him, pulling on the erect tips until they’re hard and aching. “So the next time you touch me, do it like this.”
“Okay,” Finn says, voice low and husky, fists tight on the arms of the chair. “What else do you like?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe if I…”
I trail a light fingertip over my ribcage, moving slowly—but certainly—south, and at the sound of Finn’s quiet moan, the desire in me jumps, alongside another kind of high that I’m all too familiar with. The high of standing on a stage with all the attention on me. The rush of the spotlight. The thrill of holding vulnerability in one hand and power in the other. The ultimate paradox of being an artist: baring my soul just to hold a person captive with it.
This is a performance and Finn is my audience. And I’m nothing if not a world-class act.
I try a harder pinch on my nipple, then close my eyes with a moan as my pussy drips. Finn shifts in his chair. I imagine his cock getting thicker at the picture of me on the bed, and the ache between my legs intensifies with a heavy throb.
I open my eyes again and see myself in the mirror. Flushed skin. Glassy eyes. A wild mane of untamed hair and a hesitant hand on my breast. Knees that have fallen open without meaning to, and a thin strip of white lace wet and clinging to my pussy. Watching myself in the reflection and wondering who this woman is, I follow the path of my hand down over my sternum and across my stomach, then spread my thighs to get a better view of my fingers slipping into my panties.
In the corner, Finn groans and drops his head back, nostrils flaring with a strained inhale, and I release my own breath witha trembling whimper. This power I have over him right now? Without touching him? Without trying? It’s everything.
“Is this what you had in mind?” I ask.
Finn keeps his head thrown back, the long line of his throat struggling to swallow and his eyes closed tight.
“You’re going to have to look at me, Finn, if you want to know how to touch me. Isn’t that what you said?”
The growl in his chest is broken and tortured, but he lifts his head and pins me with eyes that are more out of control than I’ve ever seen them. Feral and frustrated.
And I’m not scared. I’m satisfied.
“Like this,” I murmur as I pull the lace to one side and spread my legs a little wider. I brush the tips of my fingers across my folds, coating them with my wetness, and I don’t know where to look—at myself in the mirror or Finn as still as carved stone in the corner—because both images are driving this moment from incredible to unbearable.
I drop my head back onto the pillows and close my eyes as I circle my clit, varying the pressure of my fingers. The small, tormented grunts from Finn make me smile to myself, and I press harder, move more quickly, tilt my hips up to meet my hand. It feels good, but not as good as riding Finn’s hard-on. No matter how I tweak my nipple or rub my clit, the tease of my climax rises like a wave that won’t ever break, taking me closer to the edge without pushing me over.
I clench my jaw and try to focus, but I’m in my head and I can’t get out of it. My orgasm, so close just a moment ago, moves out of reach.
I glance at Finn, about to ask him what I should do next, but my eyes catch on the hard ridge in his pants, a dark spot of precum staining the cotton, and desire flares all over again. The veins on his forearms pop with the strength it takes to keep hishands on the arms of the chair, and the hard set of his jaw, the furrow in his brow make my core clench.
I slip a finger inside myself and release a heavy, relieved breath.
“Finn?”
“Yeah?” he answers, or I think he does. His response is barely more than a moan.
“Can I see you?” I ask him, and when his head tilts with puzzlement, I nod at the hard length straining against his pants. “There. Can I see it?”
Finn rakes a hand through his hair, then grips the arms of the chair with even more force than before.
“This is about you, Songbird, and what you need. It’s not about me or what I want.”
“But whatdoyou want?”
His nostrils flare. “I think you know what I want.”
“Oh, God.” My finger makes wet sucking sounds as I pump it in and out. “Please, Finn. I want to see you.” My breath comes faster at the idea of touching myself while Finn watches with his dick in his hand. “I can’t get there on my own. I need to see what I do to you.”
His groan is deep and pained, but he drags his thin cotton T-shirt up over his hard, inked abs, and then tucks a thumb into the waistband of his sweats. With a turn of his wrist, he drags the fabric over his swollen length, and I groan at the first sight of his thick and throbbing cock.
For the first time in my life, I want to get on my knees for a man. I want to wrap my lips around his dick, feel his fingers twist in my hair, and have my throat fucked by a god who can’t control himself around me.
I wonder if Finn would be rough with me. I wonder what he’d say if I asked.
