Page 19 of The Pucking Proposal

“Does that hurt?”

“No, feels good,” he moans. “Are you touching yourself too?”

He knows I am.

I slipped my hand beneath my pajama shorts when I saw him start to jack off and now my breathing is too fast, and though I’m holding back noises of pleasure as I circle my clit with my fingers, I’m sure he can hear how wet I am. I can’t stop the sounds of my pussy sucking my fingers as I plunge them inside myself, timing the thrusts with Dalton’s strokes down his cock.

I nod.

“Let me see,” he demands, but I shake my head. He groans in disappointment but doesn’t stop stroking. “Are you close?”

“Yesss.” My brow is furrowed, my toes are curling, and I can feel everything in my body pulling to a central point behind my clit.

“Fuck. Let me hear you at least. Say my name,” he orders roughly.

I move faster, fucking myself with my fingers, my eyes locked on his hand moving up and down, up and down, and that shiny silver ring moving with every stroke. And I explode.

“Dalton—” I cry.

His neck muscles strain and his bicep goes hard, both highlighted in the sharp relief of the hotel’s bedside lamp.

“Fuck. Fuck. Joy.” His answering shout is guttural and groaned as jets of cum violently shoot from his cock, covering his abs as he reflexively curls in on himself.

Both panting, we come back to ourselves, and meet each other’s eyes. The confusion mixed with bliss in his is likely mirrored in my own.

Wow!

What did we do?

How soon can we do it again?

That can never happen again.

“It’s running down your stomach,” I offer as his mess goes right where I said it would. To the cum gutter groove on his abs.

“Shit.” He reaches off-screen, coming back with what I think is a T-shirt. He wipes at his belly and then rubs it over his now soft, but still large, cock. “That was—” He stops, like he doesn’t know what to call what we did.

“Sexy as fuck. And a really bad idea,” I answer.

He sighs in relief. “Yeah. Both of those,” he agrees, moving the camera higher so I can see only his face, as if modesty just became a thing he’s concerned with.

“We should—” I say slowly, not sure where my sentence is going.

“Yeah—”

I have no idea what we’re agreeing on. Doing it again? Never doing it again? Pretending that didn’t happen?

“Well, uh ... you should probably go to bed. I know you’ve got a big day tomorrow, and Fritzi will want you to get some sleep.”

He nods, looking off to the side. “Yeah. Seven a.m. call time.”

“Good luck tomorrow, Days.” I use his last name intentionally, thinking we could use the distance it provides.

“Thanks.”

And, both looking shell-shocked, we hang up.

Did I do that? With Dalton Days of all people? I’m not sure I even like him! So why was it the hardest I’ve come in a long time?

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