Page 8 of Saddle and Scent
I meet my own eyes and immediately want to look away.
But he says, “Don’t. Stay with me.”
I try. I watch as my hand slips down, as my fingers part the seam of my shorts and find my clit, already swollen, hypersensitive.
I gasp at the first touch; my hips jerk up. It’s almost too much, but not enough.
I chase the feeling, pressing, circling, and in the mirror, I can see every tremor, every flush, the arch of my back and the way my mouth falls open on a silent moan.
Callum’s voice anchors me.
“That’s it. Good girl.” It’s not meant to be patronizing. It’s just what you say when you want someone to know they’re safe.
I keep going, faster now, and he keeps talking.
“You look so good like this, Juniper. Do you see it?” He waits for me to nod. “Good. Don’t stop.”
My eyes flick from my own reflection to his, and there’s a moment where our gazes meet in the glass. I don’t realize he’s shifted his knelt stance so he can enjoy this reflected performance, which only sends sparks of arousal through me, inviting more slick to pool and gush out like a never-ending Nile. The look on his face is so open, so hungry and reverent, it makes me ache.
I want him to touch me.
For him to hold me down and make me cum again and again.
I desperately hate how much I want that…and yet that tiny little part of me doesn’t.
She enjoys this level of desperation. This heated need. Addicted to the mere thought of wanting it all.
He senses the shift, because suddenly his voice is lower, darker.
“Spread your legs for me,” he says.
Fucking hell…
How can one not obey?
The angle is obscene, my pussy glistening in the lamplight. I’m drenched, soaking through the thin cotton, and I know he sees it, but I don’t care.
I want him to see it.
I want him to see what he’s contributed to with his encouragement.
“Take your shorts off,” he says.
My hands are shaking, but I manage it.
I toss them aside, and now I’m spread on the bed, nothing left to hide.
The air hits me, and I shiver, but it’s not from cold.
It’s from pure desire.
“Touch yourself,” he says. “Like before.”
I do, and this time it’s a lot easier.
The shame is still there, buried subconsciously, like a burden not worth having, drowned out by the need.
I circle my clit, faster, harder, and I can feel the orgasm building, low and hot and inevitable. My eyes roll back, but I force myself to look, to watch as my body comes undone.
