Page 95 of Charming Deception

He squeezes his balls, and his cock bounces, straining. The thick length flexes, stiffening, and he hasn’t even touched it yet.

I know I shouldn’t be watching this.

I can’t stop.

He pulls on his heavy sac, stretching it and squeezing. Then he runs his other hand up the length of his thick shaft, all the way to the head, and back down, a groan lodging in his throat, the sound sending a shiver down my spine.

He’s pleasuring himself.

After he told me we wouldn’t have sex.

Clearly, something stirred him to arousal. But he didn’t try anything with me.

I told him he could touch me. And considering how uncomfortable he’d seemed sharing a bed, I’m starting to think he finds me attractive. Maybe very attractive?

Which means… he’s doing this out of respect for me?

I watch his hands expertly work his own body, sliding along his shaft, squeezing his balls, as his cock grows stiffer, angrier. He’s breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling, his entire body tensed, his muscles tight, as he teases himself.

As his fingers slide up and down, his cock responds, standing up tall, his hips flexing restlessly, his swollen sac tightening. He looks every inch the virile man he is, primed, aroused, and probably aching to ejaculate.

And here he is, alone.

I’m utterly fascinated by this.

Troy never put my comfort, my feelings of safety and security, much less happiness, before his own pleasure. I knew that was wrong. Eventually, I admitted it to myself.

But I’ve still never experienced anything different.

It’s eye-opening.

Moving, in a way I can’t explain.

There’s a part of me that knows I should go back to bed, stop watching this. But there’s no way I can tear myself away as my heartbeat thuds in my throat.

I wasn’t joking that I’m a voyeur. I love to watch.

It was one of my favorite things, watching Troy masturbate.

Of course, Troy always knew I was there, watching. He liked putting on a show for me.

Right up until the day he put on his final show—not solo—and I walked away.

Guilt trips through me; I don’t want to think about that now.

I also don’t want to betray Jameson’s trust.

But still, I can’t back away.

He knows there’s no door. And I try to convince myself that there’s some small part of him that knows I could walk in on this, that I might watch. That in that knowledge, he’s wordlessly consenting to let me watch.

If he wanted total privacy, he’d go into the room with the toilet, right?

But he doesn’t.

And I’ve never watched a guy touch himself like that before.

Drawing it out. Stroking so deliberately, so slowly, reveling in the feel of his own fingers sliding from root to tip and back again.

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