Page 4 of Saddle and Scent
Almost.
“Slow, then. In and out.”
I try, just to prove him wrong.
Instead, I gasp. It’s like every cell in my body is trying to come out through my skin. Every point of contact is electric.
I squeeze my knees together, but the friction makes it worse.
He doesn’t move, but his eyes darken, pupils dilated until his irises are a rim of caramel.
“You can touch yourself, if you want,” he says.
No tease or innuendo.
I should be mortified.
Instead, I’m desperate.
My hand, as if acting of its own accord, begins a slow pilgrimage up the inside of my thigh. It's a shaky journey, my fingers trembling so intensely that at first, I fumble, the destination elusive—a private hell wrapped in anticipation and dread. Each attempt feels like a million miles to reach, but finally, when I do make contact with that feverish skin, it's as if I've ignited a wildfire beneath my flesh, an unseen static charge dancing along nerve endings that are already frayed and hypersensitive.
The sensation spreads outwards like lightning across a night sky, swift and undeniable in its path. Every inch I cover sends a jolt up my spine, sharp enough to blur the lines between pleasure and pain—a dissonant harmony only known to those caught in the grip of their own body’s betrayal.
Breath catches in my throat, tight and suffocating; it feels as though I'm drawing air through syrup. My hips move involuntarily against the pressure of my palm—my body conducting its own symphony of desperate need—a danse macabre where I am both composer and instrument. The instinct to retreat battles with the primal urge to seek more:more touch, desperate strife for release, and the crave of everything I’m terrified to want.
The room disappears momentarily into a haze—fuzzy around the edges—and there's nothing left but this intensity that's singular in its focus. It's terrifying how much it consumes me; how easily it strips away layers of self-imposed restraint until I am raw beneath Callum's steady gaze—a single entity existing only for this moment.
I gasp at the shock of it all, my breath leaving me in one ragged exhalation that sounds far too vulnerable for comfort.
The guttural noise reverberates off walls like an echo chamber—it shames me even as it binds us closer in this shared space.
Without conscious thought guiding me, my hips buck against my palm again—relentless now—and there’s no denying the inevitability of where this is leading.
Yet through the mortification rises another sensation: liberation found only when surrender becomes second nature.
When yielding is acceptance rather than defeat.
I want to disappear into thin air from embarrassment—to close my eyes and pretend this is someone else's reality altogether.
But simultaneously—and perhaps more urgently—I find myself wishing for time’s mercy: for this relentless tide never to cease and this once unfamiliar yet now all-consuming rhythm never to break pace until every fiber has sung its song.
I gasp, and my hips buck against my palm. I want to die. I want to never stop.
He watches, silent and solid as a mountain. His breathing is just a little faster than before.
“That’s good,” he says, voice low. “Don’t fight it.”
I press harder, chasing the edge.
My back arches, legs splay, and for a second I forget he’s even here.
I’m just heat and friction and hunger, so intense it’s almost pain.
Then I remember. He’s right there. And for some reason, that makes it better.
I glance at him and the look on his face is so raw, so hungry, it nearly tips me over the edge.
My body tenses, every muscle drawn taut as a bowstring.
