Page 30 of Lost Touch
The earbuds came out with a quick yank, and I scrabbled to press pause with my other hand.
“Earth to Ash,” he said, and it sounded like that wasn’t the first time he’d spoken to me. Actually, he sounded a little…well, bitchy. “Are you going to want lunch, or what?”
Take the high road, Ash. Be the bigger man.
Drew definitely had me beat as far as bigger—in every dimension—and that thought made me choke on a burst of laughter.
He glared at me, and I cleared my throat. “Yes, please,” I said meekly. “Lunch sounds good.”
Drew left for the kitchen without another word, and I thoughtfully set the laptop aside and sat there, staring into space and giving him a minute. Okay, so clearly we still had a ways to go on the “Get Drew back to normal” plan. Another hand job after lunch? Maybe, but even if I couldn’t feel any soreness in my wrist, I didn’t want to end up with carpal tunnel.
And he hadn’t knotted, which maybe meant he hadn’t gotten enough relief. Could I ask him? No, because I might die from embarrassment. The answer could be that he didn’t like me enough.
But there were other ways to get him off, and I could think of those without having to ask him. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? And I’d liked touching him. Surely it wouldn’t be that different with a different part of my body.
I licked my lips, imagining what that big cock might feel like passing between them. His taste wouldn’t come through, and maybe that would be a good thing—I didn’t know how I’d react to semen. Although the texture might be more of a problem than the taste would’ve been. His cock would probably be a lot like my finger, wouldn’t it? Firm, with smooth skin on it. I slipped a finger into my mouth and sucked on it, adding a second finger after a moment—and then a third, after thinking a bit more about how thick Drew had been in my hand.
Okay, maybe I needed that fourth finger. I tucked my thumb and rubbed my bundled fingers over my tongue, having to stretch my lips open around my hand. It didn’t hurt, of course, but there wasn’t even any discomfort.
Huh, maybe I didn’t have a gag reflex right now. That’d be convenient. Careful not to scratch or bruise myself without noticing, I pushed my fingers deeper, all the way to the back of my throat.
Nothing at all: no sensation beyond a bit of pressure.
A little deeper, and the pressure grew. I had to stretch my mouth open all the way to fit my knuckles.
I’d be on my knees, probably. Would Drew want to stand up? Loom over me, a hand on the back of my head with his fingers tangled in my curls, filling my mouth and thrusting down my throat?
“Ash, lunch is—oh my fucking gods.”
The fingers in my throat partially muffled the whimper I let out as I whipped my head around to see Drew standing a few feet inside the living room near the doorway to the kitchen.
He looked like he’d been flash-frozen, standing there with his body completely rigid and his mouth hanging open. One fist had clenched at his side—with a hint of gleaming claw—and his eyes held that alpha glow again.
Slowly, carefully, I slid my hand out of my mouth. Drew made a sound low in his chest that had all my hackles up, my body tensed in fight-or-flight…as if the crippling, breath-stealing embarrassment wasn’t already enough.
“I was going to say lunch is ready,” Drew said, his voice a nearly subsonic growl. “But it looks like you were already eating your fucking hand.”
The wordsI wanted to see if I could fit your cock down my throat without chokingnearly fell off my tongue.
I bit them back, partly because I didn’t think I could say them without choking. And possibly also dying. Some excuse, there had to be one…
“I had, uh, I had something stuck in my molar.” Oh, very nice. And super believable, Christ. And then the part of my brain that couldn’t stop fucking with me spewed a few more words out, my voice going up a whole octave: “Turns out I don’t have a gag reflex!”
Drew stared at me for a long moment, eyes flashing, his chest rising and falling rapidly enough that I could see it from across the room. Of course, his painted-on T-shirt helped a lot with visibility. Jesus, he had a lot of muscle in his chest.
“I’m going for a run,” he said abruptly, sounding out of breath already.
And then he disappeared into the kitchen again, the back door slamming behind him as he left through the laundry porch.
Hang on, hadn’t that door been broken? I jumped up off the couch and trotted after, wincing as I rubbed my sticky fingers together. First semen, now saliva. Apparently it was bodily fluids day.
When I got through the kitchen, I saw the door rehung in the frame, the splintered wood glued back together or something and the hinges reaffixed.
That made me stop and frown and run through yesterday’s sequence of events, logically and chronologically. We’d both slept in Drew’s bed the night before last, but since then he’d gone out to the woods, spent time in his office, gone out to the woods again, attacked me, spent the night in the woods…and then apparently fixed the door when he got back.
So when the fuck had heslept? Had he slept much the night before, either? Because he’d been up before I even started stirring.
Damn it. This was worse than I’d thought. And clearly a measly hand job hadn’t been effective at all, since he hadn’t gotten even a little bit sleepy afterwards and now he’d gone out racing around the forest again.
