Page 114 of Texting Dr. Stalker

“You can either teach me what you like, or you can retreat inward and focus on healing. Either way, I’m here.” His voice hitched as his middle finger stroked my entrance. He didn’t comment on my slickness or say anything to embarrass me. He merely held my stare, swallowed a growl, and torturously, slowly inserted that finger inside me.

I arched off the bed again. My blood heated, my bones trembled. No one had ever looked at me so intently all while touching me so intimately.

With just one finger, he blew me apart.

Unable to hold his stare while he systemically shattered my body into pieces, I closed my eyes and focused on his touch.

He didn’t rush.

He savoured.

His heavy, harsh breathing sent goosebumps darting over me as he pressed his thumb against my clit and just held it there. I moaned as he hooked his finger inside me, pressing against that inner spot, making me clench.

I waited for him to speak.

I hated that I didn’t really want him to. I didn’t want to have to cringe with self-consciousness. I didn’t want to fight to focus on his touch. I wanted him to remain with me but distant—here but far enough away that I could be swept away and hopefully find a way to come for myself, not for him.

Without a word—almost as if he’d heard my silent request—he feathered a second finger inside me. A soft cry escaped me as his thumb finally moved on my clit, just the barest rub, firm with pressure. He didn’t tickle or bruise, he somehow knew the perfect press.

The longer he touched me, the less effort it took to concentrate. With every hook and flutter of his fingers, my mind turned darker and softer, and all that mattered was a release.

My hands clutched at the blankets as he shifted closer and pressed his erection against my hip, letting me feel I wasn’t the only one burning. With a soft growl, he withdrew his fingers before pushing them back inside me.

Not rough, not cruel…worshipping and claiming and absolutely delicious.

And still, he didn’t speak.

I lost track of time as he set a rhythm with his fingers, slow and languid to start, his thumb keeping constant pressure on my clit. He built me up and up. I felt heavier and heavier. Hotter and hotter.

And when I reached for his arm and felt his muscles contract and the steady thrusting motion of his wrist, I lost it.

My legs fell wider. My teeth clamped onto my bottom lip.

Iwanted.

More and more andmore.

I forgot why this was so hard for me. Why being touched had become so terrifying. All that mattered was the searing fire he cultivated inside me, slowly adding more and more fuel until my body clutched around his touch, and I cried out as his wrist angled deeper.

I clung to his bicep as his pace increased. His touch went deeper. His thumb pressed harder.

Up and up and up, he pushed me.

Quietly, firmly, wonderfully.

I couldn’t stay still any longer.

I shivered and squirmed, fighting with him, needing to come, all while terrified of it.

His leg hooked over mine, keeping me pinned.

And then he inserted a third finger.

His pace lost its sweetness. His hand moved with the motions of fucking.

He didn’t coax me anymore. He shoved me up the mountain, forcing me to tighten, to spiral, to spark. The telltale drawing up of my womb, the hot, delicious cramps that turned into a delicious knot just waiting to explode.

I was so close.

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