Page 59 of Lamb

I clamped my hand tightly over my face, locking away any other pathetic sounds from escaping.

Lamb, however, had other plans. His large hand wrapped around my wrist, his fingers overlapping around the other side, and he pulled me clean off his lap, standing to his side. I did not understand how I had moved from one space to another so fast, but the cold ate away at my skin.

Rejection burned through my veins, pulled aside so fast and efficiently by a man who seconds ago could not get enough of me. I wrapped my arms around my chest, cradling the burning rising like acid up through my throat.

“Why—”

“Sit down,” Lamb growled, the tempered burning edge to his throat hoarse and gravelled.

I stood straighter, confusion now washing down over me. “You just threw me off, and now you want me back again?” I growled, my upset clear in my tone.

Lamb did not care. He disregarded my words as if I had not said them at all. “Sit back down,” he pressed, his dark eyes not leaving mine. He stared straight through my head, like an arrow through the eye and I was caught like prey.

Was this some game? If it was, I was not interested in playing. He felt good, but I was not one to be toyed with. Never.

“I will not,” I growled.

“Sit.” Lamb’s voice dipped deeper, and I would be damned if my legs did not squeeze together, a hot, pounding throb where his finger had teased.

My body, clearly not listening to my brain, stepped closer, my core deciding we were playing hotter and colder, and with each step closer, back into his reach, I burned, and I scorched.

I was nearly panting as my thighs brushed against his, still sitting on his stool, eyes turned upwards to look at mine. Looking down past my small breasts, my nipples pointing out at his face like dousing rods looking for water.

Lamb moved his hands from his sides, gesturing widely to his lap. I moved, slowly and cautiously, like a lion stood staring at me. I felt his gaze hot down my neck as I lifted my leg and—

“No.” Lamb’s hands snaked out to my waist, his fingers wrapping tight and firmly over each one before he spun me around like I weighed no more than a feather, picking me up and planting me back down on his lap.

But it was different this time.

This time, with his thighs beneath my core, his dick pressed up between the curves of my ass, and his chest pressed into myback, each hard ab drawing lines on either side of my spine, I was facing someone else.

Me.

I had not paid much attention to the big floor-length mirror, its beautiful golden edges and the out-of-place ornate design in such a modern bathroom. But there it stood in its antique glory, and there I sat, ill-suited inside such a beautiful frame.

Condensation crept around the edges, drips of water, like tears, rolling down its surface, warping and twisting small specs of the image reflected on its surface.

“I want you to watch,” Lamb purred in my ear.

More sensitive and aware of his hot breath rolling on my skin, I fought not to wiggle against his lap and drench his jeans in the desire leaking from my centre.

His arm slung around my waist like an anchor, his other slid down over my waist, creeping between my thighs and pulling them open.

I watched, transfixed as my body moved like a puppet, as Lamb adjusted me as he liked.

He leaned me back, my head falling into the nook of his shoulder, the angle tilting my hips so my centre was in full view to both me and him.

I watched with bated breaths as his hand slid lower, fingers reaching out to soothe through my folds. I felt him more than I had before, as if myself and the version of me in the mirror could feel everything as one. Even the sensations of his touch were reflected two-fold.

He moved slowly at first, with delicacy and deliberation in his actions as I watched through the mirror. My earlier impatience and frustration vanished, replaced by a rising anticipation, seeing what he was doing, knowing where he was touching and feeling it all the same was like the slow climb of a rollercoaster.

“Lamb,” I whined, not sure what I wanted or what I was begging for. Lamb seemed to know, though, as if he could read my body like a book, as his other hand holding me still moved down between my thighs, finding my hot, throbbing core, and slid one finger straight in. I moaned as his finger began to pump in and out. His other hand found the tender, desperate bundle of nerves and started to swirl and rub against it.

The pressure began to build, heat and lust tangling in my stomach. My fingers fought against the denim on his thighs, so tight I was no doubt clawing red marks into the skin beneath them, but I did not care. Lamb’s finger began to move faster in and out of me, and I could only focus on the rise growing.

My breaths were short, and I could no longer stop the small whimpers and moans slipping from my lips, nor the buck of my hips with each pleasurable motion.

Still, I stared hard into the reflection, watching his fingers go round and round and inside and out, mesmerised and enraptured with each flex of his fingers shooting a burst of pleasure burning through my body. Watching his finger slide up to the knuckle, disappearing inside of me, amplified the sensations.

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