Page 27 of Merry Little Mishap

“Yes.” My breathing hitched from how he squeezed his cock. He stroked himself just once, his pants too tight for anything but a slow, smooth jerk.

“Elena, are you touching yourself?”

“Yes. I’m just… so sensitive right now.” I cautiously circled my clit, my knees buckling in and out with the bundled nerves that needled through my thighs. Nervousness still took hold of my every move, my body slowly warming up to the idea of being watched.

Nick’s pants dropped further towards his pelvis, revealing a tan line that met the neat patch of dark pubic hair and flat muscle. “Are you watching me stroke myself?”

“Yes. It looks tight against your thigh… I think it’s sexy.” I shuddered, dipping my finger inside my slit, finding the courage to thrust it inside me, freeing my wetness. “Can you hear how wet I am?”

Nick stroked harder, his head leaning against the elevator wall, eyes squeezed shut. “You still embarrassed to do this?”

“No,” I answered immediately, so quickly that I almost giggled. It was liberating actually, and I rubbed myself harder.

“Does it make you shy that I can hear your wet little cunt?” he gritted, and it turned me on.

“I want you to hear.” A moan escaped me, as I unzipped the side of my skirt. “You can look now.” I said hesitantly, ready for his needy eyes to be on me, convincing myself that it was ok since he knew I fucked myself for work, that I watched porn and played with my holes.

Nick’s mouth parted with a breath, his eyes clear and vivid as he opened them, seemingly aching by the sight of me, by the fact that he wasn’t able to touch me.

“Jesus, Elena. You’re so fucking beautiful.” The mounds of his shoulders tightened as his pants fell past his ass, his cock springing loose.

“Fuck,” I ran my fingers past my clit, bobbing in and out of my pussy, spreading myself open so he could jerk off to it. At first all I could see was Nick, his erection stiff in his hands, far larger than the grip he used to wrap around the entirety of his dick. He licked up his palm, stroking the tip of his cock into his fist.

“Is that how you do it? You finger yourself?”

I pumped faster, shutting my eyes, then opening them again, controlling my breath. I showed off my stomach, taking hold of my shirt, lifting it up for Nick, for his insatiable expression, for him to see the soft, flat spot below my breast as I leaned against the wall. “I always finger myself. Always. I love the way it feels.”

“Tell me,” he instructed.

I tried not to lean forward, fighting the beginning tingles of an orgasm as Nick’s tempting cock glistened with spit, his balls waiting to be drained. Fuck, why did that turn me on so damn much? Was this really happening? It felt like a dream, and the longer we played, the more real it became.

“I like the pressure of being entered. Of feeling open, and if I had it with me, I’d fuck myself with my toy.”

“You’d do that… for me?”

“Just for you,” I swallowed. “But fuck, Nick, don’t go too fast, it makes me want to go fast too, and I’m not ready for this to be over.”

“Then do it with me,” he squeezed tighter, rocking his hips into his hand. I bit into the bottom of my shirt, unintentionally lifting it past my bra, its black lace taut on my tits, my nipples escaping as I arched my back and heaved my chest.

“Just… if you fucking come. Could you come on me?” I whimpered.

“You’d want that, naughty-list girl?” he asked eagerly.

“All over my stomach.” My first base card fell out of my hand, my head wild and spinning as it caught Nick’s attention.

I froze as he pulled his pants up, making his way toward me. I almost screamed when he nearly pinned me against the wall.

“Nick!” I yelped as he moved far closer than he’d ever been before. The heat of his cock sat bent in his hand, almost grazing my stomach as I palmed my pussy. I didn’t move an inch, not wanting to lose the game.

He looked down at my card on the floor.

“Read it for me,” he breathed me in. “Ask me what the card says, because I’m fucking dying to tell you.”

I peeked over at it, the innocent question so simple and sweet compared to how hot we just got.

‘“What outfit do I look the sexiest in?’”I muttered near his lips.

“Would you believe me if I told you this: a pink robe, a towel in your hair, green cream on your face… you. You from this morning. You from last week with the red sweater and gold hoop earrings. You from the summer, with your white tank top and your small—oh so fucking tight—denim shorts. It’s you, it’s your curly hair, your red lips, and brown eyes… eyes that are more caramel than cinnamon, a color that I have carefully and constantly contemplated about.”

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