Page 67 of The Legend Next Door
I’m glad he told me to look at him. It’s good. It’s a gluttonous, greedy man’s luxury to watch him as he slowly lifts my T-shirt up. It’s a blessing because my brain is severely offline, and God only knows where I’d be looking or what I’d be doing if he hadn’t told me. It’s nice. Brainless and safe. There’s no guessing. No chance I’m embarrassing myself. Or if I am, I’m embarrassing myself in a way he wants, and that’s a-okay with me.
On the other hand, it’s torture because Ben, when he’s undressing me, is a thing of such beauty that it hurts to look directly at him. Every time he uncovers more skin, the corners of his eyes crease and he gives a little smirk. The sweetest, sexiest little smirk I’ve ever seen. A smirk that’s happy and inexperienced and pleased with itself at the same time.
When my T-shirt lies on the floor, he swipes a heavy hand over my chest, starting at my clavicle and sliding slowly down my body. I tense when he grazes my nipple. He doesn’t miss it. He works his hand down, curling it so his knuckles dust my lower belly before traveling up again. He strokes my pecs lightly, barely touching me but causing my pink skin to tighten all the same.
“Are these sensitive?” he asks, rolling both nipples between a thumb and forefinger.
“S-so sensitive,” I stammer as I fight the hard shiver that threatens. My knees are locked, arms stiff at my sides. There’s something unbearable about watching Ben’s face as he touches me. It’s so intimate, so sweet, I can hardly take it. He looks happy. Really happy. He keeps smiling and murmuring to himself as he runs his hands over every part of my chest.
Now and again, he says, “I like this,” to different parts of my body.
When he’s done, he cards his fingers through my hair, tightening slightly, just the smallest, most perfect amount, so my scalp tingles when his fist clenches at the base of my skull.
He was looking down before, at my arms, my neck, my chest, as he touched me. Now he’s looking into me. His eyes are blazing. Burning. Blue-white.
He places his free hand on my sternum and slides it down slowly, hand turning so his fingertips lead the way. His movements are painfully slow, so slow that I start jabbering, “You don’t have to,” and “It’s fine. I-I don’t mind.”
He keeps his eyes open as he kisses me softly, licking into my mouth in a way I understand is a gentle warning. He’s in charge, not me. “I want to.”
He holds me firmly in place as his fingers worry the waistband of my jeans. I’m not wearing a belt, and the jeans I’m wearing are my pottery jeans. They’re stained, and they lost their top button years ago. I’m about to explain all that to him when he bites one side of his bottom lip. There’s a short pause where neither of us moves.
A second later, he’s cupping my cock and balls through denim.
“Oooh,” I splutter, almost losing my legs.
His eyes are still on me, soft and warm, as he blinks in amazement. “You’re so hard,” he whispers.
“Nng,” I say in agreement as my eyes cross briefly and then find their slightly out-of-focus focus back on Ben.
He moves his hand up and then down.
I see stars.
Ben’s right. I am hard. I’m harder than I was last night, and that was the hardest I’ve been in my life. I’m so hard now that I’m stepping on the spot, mewling helplessly as Ben touches me.
His touch is tentative, light, and unsure, paired with the sexy, soft sound of his laughter. He giggles every time he touches me. He’s not laughing at me. He wouldn’t do that. He’s laughing because he’s happy. Because he’s having fun.
He’s said, “Wow,” five or six times now, and every time he does, it makes me happier and hornier than the last time he did it.
He uses the hand in my hair to steer me in for a filthy, open-mouth kiss. This time, it’s clumsy. His tongue strokes mine hard and unapologetically, and it’s paired with a guttural sound that comes from low down in Ben’s belly.
He struggles with my zipper. My hands float at my sides, ready to help him if he tells me to. The zipper gets stuck halfway down, but it doesn’t matter. I breathe in, pulling my belly in to give him enough space to get his hand into my pants.
He takes it. It’s a little rough, rough enough to jostle me from side to side and force a soft gasp out of me. It’s a fight, a push and pull, but at last, he finds purchase. His skin touches my skin.
I almost come on the spot.
The only reason I don’t is because he raises a single brow and says, “Slowly.”
Everything slows. Not just the orgasm thundering toward me but my mind and my breathing too.
My heart triples its pace.
35
Ben Stirling
Ihavenoideawhat I’m doing, but I like it. Jeremiah’s zipper is stuck, fly halfway open, and my hand is crammed into his pants. He’s hard and leaking, a solid bar that’s slippery against the palm of my hand.
