Page 32 of Due South

Dammit, Evans, do not get hard. Just don’t. Don’t do it. Don’t be that guy.

I should think about basically anything other than her rounded ass rubbing up against me and how freaking good that feels. Anything. But she does it again and again and now I’m starting to wonder if she’s doing it on purpose.

“Are you uncomfortable?”

Maybe she’s changed her mind about the snuggling. But all she’d have to do would be to sit up and move away. I’d be sad, but I wouldn’t argue, wouldn’t make her feel as if she owed me anything as valuable as affection.

“Yes.”

Oh, crap. I put my other hand to the ground and start to shift back, but she grabs my thigh, digging fingers into my flesh, which does absolutely nothing to deflate my burgeoning hard-on.

“Only because I’m getting a little—a little…horny.”

I can barely hear the last word, but barely is enough. She’s getting turned on too?

“Oh. I, uh—”Fucking man up, Evans. You’ve got a knock-out redhead squirming against you and telling you she’s ready to go. Now is not the time for mumbling. Step up and give the girl what she wants.And if it happens to be what I want? So much the better. So I snug back up behind her, rubbing what is now a full-on erection against her butt and slipping my hands under the blanket to grip her thighs. I gather up that forceful persona she seems to like and I say, “I bet I could help you with that.”

She whimpers and squirms again, pressing against me and forcing a gasp because the pressure is a bit much but I don’t want her to stop. “Please,” she begs, her voice small and desperate. “Please, Evans?”

As if I’d be doing her some fucking favor by getting her off.

“Then spread your legs.”

She does as I ask, hooking her knees over mine until she’s spread out in front of me. The ocean and some distant seagulls are our only witnesses, but it still feels dangerous somehow. I know Lucy’s got a bit of exhibitionist in her, and since we’re actually in public, I might be able to take advantage of that.

I reach down between her legs and stroke the soft insides of her thighs. She sighs against me and turns to jelly in my arms. Working my way with teasing fingers up toward her panties, I lean down. “Close your eyes.”

From this angle, I can’t tell if she does, but I trust her to.

Letting my fingers slip closer, I allow myself a deep breath of her hair. It’s not as sweet as usual, dulled by the indoor air of the office and it’s probably been a day since she put whatever it is that makes her hair smell like that in, but it’s still better than almost anything I can imagine. It brushes my face as I kiss her neck, taking gentle bites at the side of her throat, and I skate my fingers along the lace between her legs.

“Huh,” I say and she shifts slightly.

“What?”

“There’re a few surfers down the beach. They’re headed this way.”

She squeaks and turns her head, so I tut at her. “Don’t open your eyes, bad girl.”

There’s another small noise, but I know, Iknowshe closed them again, because I told her to. And a good thing because there aren’t any surfers. They are convenient figments of my filthy imagination. She’s tensed some against me and usually that would bug me—I want her to be comfortable with me—but a little adrenaline never hurt anyone.

So I delve my hand into her panties, my fingers slicking against her hot, willing flesh. I dip my fingers back to where she’s wet, oh my god, so wet already, and gather up some moisture to make circling her clit in the way she likes easier. She mewls and oh, does that ever make me hard.

“They’re walking this way, Luce. They’ve got their boards under their arms and they’re talking to each other. But, oh—one of them looked over here.”

She twists underneath my hands, but I don’t let up, just keep up the assault against her hot, wet, swollen flesh. The resistance doesn’t feel real, though, not like she really wants me to stop. It feels like an enhancement, a plea, because this is hot and she wants to test herself. Or me. How far will I push her to go? If she told me to stop, I would. I’d tell her to open her eyes so she could see it was only us and the waves, that the surfers are a fiction my sex-addled imagination came up with. But she doesn’t tell me to stop, doesn’t push me away, so I keep up the ruse.

“How close do you think they can get before they’ll hear those little sex noises you make, huh? Do you think they’ll realize that under this blanket I’ve got you spread out like an all-you-can-eat buffet? Think one or both of them might like to get in on that?”

There’s a panicked squeak accompanied by a twist of her hips, so I pet the inside of her thigh and back off. There’s a tightrope I’m walking and I’m guiding her with me. How far is too far? I don’t want either of us to fall. I push on with my fantasy, still circling her clit and taking pauses to pinch her gently.

“Or maybe they’d like to stand here and watch me finger-fuck you until you come.” I slip my fingers inside her, loving how snug and hot it feels, loving how she lets me literally inside of her, loving how she makes a gasp that turns into a soft moan because it feels so good to be filled. “They’re only about fifty feet away now. Think I can make you come right when they’re passing by? Are you gonna be quiet, Luce? Or are you going to let them hear you because you want them to know? What do you think?”

Her hips are bucking under the blanket, and if there were anyone on the beach, they’d have no trouble guessing what exactly was going on. But there’s no one, just us and the screechy seagulls. She doesn’t have to know that, though.

“Thirty feet,” I say, pushing my fingers as far and as hard as they’ll go given the angle, trying to rub my palm on her clit because she likes that. “They’re definitely watching you. They’re not even pretending not to.”

A cry escapes her throat, but it doesn’t slow her movements. If anything she’s writhing against my hand, and when I say twenty, she clamps her hand over mine and thrusts into me even harder.

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