Page 74 of Afterglow
“Abso-fucking-lutely.”
I don’t think this is what he had in mind when he wanted to use the blindfold, but here we are. His agreement was, shall we say,enthusiastic.
You can do whatever you want to me, he said,anything and everything.
My attention switches between the makeshift phone camera on the tripod and the black silk ribbon cutting through the stunning red waves of hair atop his head. The sight of the rest of him? Goddamn.
Fletcher Donovan lies on his mattress, clothed in nothing but his bare, peachy skin and the network of freckles, wrists bound above his head with a shiny, self-sticking tape. Both arms extend fully as they hang off a screwed-in hook atop the tufted headboard. Similar hooks chained to leather straps attached to his ankles keep his bottom half spread-eagled.
Heavy desire heats me from the inside, throbbing low in my core until my pulse beats through every layer of my body. I strip, clammy skin already making it difficult to remove the lightweight dress.
“Bea?” he calls toward the window, in the opposite direction from where I stand in nothing but a sheer black bra and thong. “Where are you?”
I answer with a feathery touch to the soles of his feet. “Right here.” He tips up his chin with a short intake of air, his toes curling in response. “Can you see anything?”
His light pink tongue licks the seam of his lips, as if able to taste me. “Only you.”
There’s no physical response to me waving a hand in front of his covered eyes. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t need my vision to see you, Bea. I see you all the time in my mind. Even when you’re not here. I close my eyes, and there you are. Feeling real as right now, the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
I suddenly get the appeal of all those romantasy books he loves. His praise wets the strip of thong on my pussy, leaking my arousal onto my inner thighs. “When do you think of me?”
“All the time. All the fucking time.” He breathes out the second sentence, seemingly pained and relieved at the same time. “Every time I touched myself…held my cock for the past six years.”
Heat courses downward. Being nearly naked isn’t helping after all. I free my chest from the cage of the bra, then tuck my fingers below the strings of fabric on each hip, stretching them. “Can you see me now?”
“Yes,” he gasps, perking an ear. “You’re…taking off your…clothes.” Fletcher’s body tenses, skin staked with goosebumps, his pink nipples pebbling into hard peaks when my thong pools to the floor. My palms cover my breasts with a harsh squeeze. He hisses. “You’re touching your…tits.” I strum my fingers over my nipples in a few circles, relishing the combined attention from his words and my own touch. “Fuck.”
One of my hands descends further down my midsection, skimming past my belly button, two fingers dipping into the slick cleft of my pussy. The other hand stays on my chest, gently pinching the nipple’s piercing. “And now?”
His hips jolt up, swollen cock slapping against his defined abs as he tightens.
“Oh, myfuck,” he strangles out a tortured noise when I swipe through my cunt, needy and pulsing. “I can hear…how wet you are.” Pre-cum streaks across the muscles of his stomach and drips through his happy trail.
I raise my arousal-coated fingers to my line of sight, smirking at a fresh idea. “Wanna play a game with me, Fletcher?”
Fletcher nods, rapid and overeager. “Yes.”
My knees hike up to join him on the mattress, climbing until I straddle his toned torso. “I’m gonna put something in your mouth.” His cock bounces. “You have to guess what it is.” The broad squares of his chest heave.
“If you guess right, you get to taste the next thing.”
“Okay.”
I stifle laughter by puffing my mouth, leaning forward to offer my elbow to Fletcher’s parted lips. He accepts with a hungry suck, and I break with a giggle.
“Elbow.”
My face angles to his, inhaling the humid air from his ragged breaths. I offer my lips next, lightly pressing them over his. He latches on with a wince, swiping his tongue against mine in quick lashes. I pull away with a wide smile.
“Your perfect fucking mouth.”
“Stick out your tongue,” I direct. He does. Both glazed fingers land on the flattened muscle, and he draws them in, suctioning and licking them clean, releasing a heady moan when I retract them. I tsk. “That’s not an answer.”
“You,” he chokes, “your wetness.”
“Good boy.”
