Page 87 of My Best Years

He quickly catches on, pushing my hands aside before lowering his to my bare thighs and pushing them apart as wide as they’ll go.

His body freezes the second he gazes down at my parted legs, his stare zeroing in on the spot that's leaking for him.

His icy-blue eyes widen, his pupils dilating as he stares directly at my sex. Without looking, I know that there’s a visible wet spot on my panties. I can feel it soaking through the cotton.

And I’m not embarrassed one bit. Because the feral look in Callum’s eyes tells me that it’s turning him the fuck on. His gaze darkens as I roll my hips against the counter, silently begging him to touch me exactly where I need him.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, eyes glued to my core. “Fuck. Look at you, Birdie.”

His fingers tremble, splaying across my thighs as he grips me tightly.

“I thought you wanted to touch me?” I ask in a seductive tone.

“I want to do a lot more than touch you, Birdie Wren,” he answers, his voice guttural. “I want to fuck you raw against this counter. But I’m trying to be a gentleman, at least for tonight.”

I want to fuck you raw against this counter.

His words shoot straight to my core, causing my insides to swirl with heat.

I should be embarrassed to admit how many times I’ve touched myself while fantasizing about Callum talking dirty to me. Even though we only had sex once, we were intimate with each other for over a year. From the first time he kissed me up until the day he left, we had been doing everything but sex.

Each time Callum would go down on me, he would talk me through it with descriptive words. When his fingers were deep inside me, he would tell me exactly how I felt. Exactly how wet I was for him. And right before I would come, he would shower me with words of praise that made my orgasms ten times more intense.

Every sexual experience I’ve had after being with Callum has fallen flat. Most men just want to get off, not caring if I finish. One guy I dated had a bit of a kinky side and did some weird shit in bed, but no man has ever spoken to me in the way that Callum does. No man has ever worshiped my body like him.

My thoughts evade me when I feel his hand cup my pussy. My mouth jars open as he rubs his fingers against my cotton panties, his thumb brushing back and forth against my throbbing clit. I can’t help but rut into his hand, seeking out as much friction as possible.

It feels too fucking good. Knowing that he’ll send me overthe edge any minute now has me hanging on to every second. The combination of his fingers stroking me through the soft fabric of my panties causes blazing stars to appear in my vision.

“Fuck…Cal,” I whimper, reaching out to grip the edge of the counter.

His gaze is dark and foggy, just as gone as mine.

“Is this what you wanted?” He rubs his fingers up and down my seam, spreading my wetness along the fabric. “For me to touch you here? On your sweet little pussy?”

I nod as my brows pinch together with pleasure so strong that it’s almost painful.

“Use your words, Birdie.”

Fuck.

Why is that so hot?

“Y-yes,” I stammer, trying to keep my orgasm at bay.

For fuck’s sake, he’s only rubbing me over my panties, and I’m about to lose it. I can feel my wetness spreading along the cotton with each stroke of his fingers.

“That’s my girl,” he hums. “You’re already soaking my fingers, and I’ve barely even touched you.”

My God.

This isn't real.

There’s no way this is real life.

Before I have a chance to catch my breath, he rewards me by sliding my panties to the side and coating his fingers in the wetness between my crease. Even through the thick denim of his jeans, I can see the tip of his cock twitching as he slowly rubs my bare pussy.

“So damn beautiful,” he praises. “The prettiest, pink cunt I’ve ever seen.”

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