Page 48 of Silenced

Then there’s a pinch—sharp enough to make me moan and for my pussy to clench around air.

He speeds up, his fingertips trailing to my channel, getting wet with me. The butt of his hand nudges my clit as he teases me with more, more… He stops. Pinches my nipple again. My pussy clutches at nothingagain.

As I groan in hungry disappointment, his eyes burn with a fire that should scald me but, instead, douses me in an overwhelming heat that makes up for the gaping emptiness deep inside.

My nostrils flare as his slick fingers return to my clit. It’s sloppier now, and he can move faster. There’s no friction. Just an easy glide that he takes full advantage of to steal my breath away from me.

Mouth rounding, hips rolling, one arm surging high, the back of my hand pressing against my forehead in a show of sheer feminine need, the other flails against my chest as I struggle to figure out what to do with it.

That’s when I stare down, for the first time looking at myself sitting naked on his lap, and I seeus.

His hand, my pussy.

The calluses on his fingers. The nicks and grooves.

My pinkness, mywetnessfilling in those gaps that time and experience have left on him.

The sight, the sound ofus—it’s exhilarating.

Yet, this is about me,forme.

Not him.

Me.

My reward.

Mine.

For a split second, he pauses. Then, he gently pats my softness. My clit reacts as if he just started tongue-fucking it. He pats me again, harder this time. A spank, more than a tap.

Shuddering, I jerk onto my knees, a keening cry escaping me.

“Oh, God,” I moan as he slides his fingers over the entirety of my pussy, slipping them from side to side so fast that I can’t help but release an expectant sob as I approach the pinnacle of my desire.

“Close, so close,” I mutter to myself, unable to recognize my voice, the need, the heat, the lust, the hunger.

That’s me.

Me.

My hips roll faster.

Pleasure is there—so close.

So near.

“Fuck, fuck,” I breathe. “More, please. More. I need—”

He stops.

My empty pussy continues clutching at nothing.

I let loose a choked cry, but my hands know exactly what to do—they grab his shoulders and dig in.

The urge to drag him against my chest, to feel those lips on my nipple is real and raw and unexpected. My nails claw at him, but he ignores my unspoken demand and simply stares at me with eyes that fan the flames of my want because he’s back to looking at me like I’m a goddess.

I’ve never been a goddess.

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