Page 31 of Fauxmance in the City

“Go ahead.” I hoist myself onto the foot of the bed and sit, crisscrossing my legs.

His smirk twitches and drops. Suddenly Sam doesn’t look smug; he looks vulnerable.

Ha! I knew it. He’s not gonna do it. Then he takes deliberate steps across the rug and stops in front of where I’m perched.

“I’d rather watch you.” He tosses the small bottle in my lap. “Or I could return the favor.”

His fingers circle my ankles one by one, tugging me toward him. My mind is going haywire, unable to process what to do next. He’s taking sharp turns before I can recover my equilibrium, and I’m gripping the edges of my sanity for dear life.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice unsteady.

“What am I doing or what can I do?” It feels like every nerve is concentrated on the parts of my skin he’s touching. His hand drifts up my calf and swoops under my knee, continuing the journey up my inner thigh until he hits the elastic of my underwear. The tips of two fingers tug on the elastic, and I swallow a moan.

“First, I’ll dip into your slit, pushing one, then two, then three fingers into you. I’ll pull your wetness out and rub it over your clit, pressing that button while working your G-spot deep in your pussy with my fingers, and when you’re about to explode I’ll suck your clit into my mouth like a fucking vacuum and make you come until you’re screaming my name.”

My thighs clench, and I whimper, red splotches burning across my chest and neck, and Sam grins triumphantly.

I almost spread my knees for him, my lady parts throbbing for him, but I can’t. It’s one thing to jerk him off, but if I let him take me, I’d have to give up control, and I don’t trust that he’ll handle me with care when it’s over.

Nope. There’s no way I’m allowing him to see me that exposed.

I pull my legs to my chest and his hand falls away, confusion crossing his features. My hand circles the KY. I toss it back, and he catches it with one hand.

“Nice try.” I cross my arms. “I’d rather watch you.”

“I never took you for a voyeur,” Sam says, fiddling with the top of his boxer briefs. His eyes twinkle mischievously, but his hand hesitates on the waistband.

“Let’s get this over with so we can go to bed.” I fake a yawn, but my heart is galloping like a racehorse in my chest. What we did in the laundry room is one thing. But masturbating is so personal, and I hate that I’m dying to watch him fist his cock.

His brow furrows, and he looks almost sad, but then all expression is erased. He yanks his boxers down and squirts a large dollop of lubricant into his palm, all the while staring at me with those sparkling baby-blue eyes, but they’re filled with something dark, and I startle when I realize it’s spite.

I’ve heard of hate sex. I’ve never heard of hate masturbation, but I think I’m about to bear witness.

Sam’s hand hovers above his erection, which stands at attention between his hips, but still, he doesn’t touch himself.

Blood rushes in my ears, but I school my face into an expression of boredom. “I’m waiting,” I say.

The spite disappears, replaced by a tempestuous fury, and he chokes his shaft, slathering it with the gel. Upon contact, his knees buckle, and he bends forward, a grunt escaping from deep in his chest. His eyelids hood as he strokes himself, slick from the lubricant, in fast pumps.

Oh. My. God.

Saliva fills my mouth and I bite my lower lip, my chest rising and falling rapidly. It takes every bit of willpower to keep my hands at my side. They’re itching to reach out and tug him. I shove them under my ass to prevent it.

“Oh, fuck.” His eyelids fall shut, lost in his pleasure.

My sex clenches as an inferno explodes under my skin. I watch his hand strangling his cock, pre-cum glistening on the end of his engorged tip.

“Look at me,” he says, his gaze capturing mine, tense and stormy. I do as he says and lust circles us, dragging my resistance away.

“I’d fuck you so hard if I was in you right now.” His growl mixes with the wet suction of his hand pumping.

A strangled cry sticks in my throat, and the throbbing in my sex reaches a point of pain, the need for release unbearable.

“Touch yourself, baby,” he says. “I know you want to.”

Boldness rises through the fire under my skin, and I’m sucked into his orbit, floating in his heat as the last tether of control snaps. I shove my hand into my soaked underwear and slide two fingers into my slit, pulling out the wetness like Sam said he’d do if he took me. I rub my fingers rapidly over my swollen nub, my hips raising as my hand presses down.

“You’re so gorgeous, baby. So beautiful when you’re turned on.”

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