Page 35 of Yearn
My balls ached under my palm, swollen and heavy.
Cold water couldn’t break the fever over her. I wasn’t sick from stress or exhaustion—I was sick from craving her body.
Teyonah was the disease and the cure, the infection in my blood and the only medicine strong enough to save me.
My fantasies were hotter than any steam, filthier than any sin.
Oh, Teyonah.
I cupped my balls harder, rolling the swollen weight slow in my palm, dragging a groan from my chest. The ache shot up my spine, fire tangled with pain. It wasn’t release, but it was close enough to taste.
Teyonah. . .
A breath hissed out between my teeth. My thighs flexed, cut with muscle, drops of water sliding down over them, over the curve of my calves, everything tight, everything straining.
My body was a weapon, every inch trained to perform, but right now all of it bent around one weakness—my cock, standing like it wanted to tear free.
Now. . .every drop of water that ran down my shaft felt like her tongue should’ve been there instead, circling, teasing, worshiping until I shattered.
My hand shivered.
I wanted to wrap it around the base, squeeze, and stroke until the veins throbbed harder.
But I forced my fingers into a fist.
My knuckles whitened.
If I touched myself now, it wouldn’t just be about release.
It would be her. Her laugh, her curves, her lips parting beneath mine. I’d be fucking her through my own grip, and that was the line I couldn’t let myself cross.
Not yet.
It would be cruel to pretend I had her, when I didn’t.
But God—staring at my cock, hard and dripping, the angry head weeping against the hard plane of my stomach, muscles tense all around it—I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep this beast caged.
This obsession over Teyonah wasn’t safe. I knew it, felt it coil tighter every day. I wasn’t just watching her anymore. I was circling, waiting, teeth bared. If I slipped, if I gave in, I wouldn’t stop. I’d consume her.
I dragged in a ragged breath, the spray pounding my shoulders, but it wasn’t enough to drown the thoughts twisting through me.
What if I called her down here?
Just one text:“Teyonah, something’s broken in the apartment. Can you take a look?”
She would come—because she’s a kind landlady.
In fact. . .she would probably come down in her pajamas, hair tied up, curves soft from the end of the day.
And the second she stepped inside, I’d close the door, lock it, and the sound of that click would be the end of civilized rules.
I could already see it—her back against the wall, eyes wide, lips parting as I loomed close. She’d gasp my name, half a protest, half a plea, and I’d shut her up with my mouth crashing over hers, my hands tearing at her pajamas.
I’d fuck her against the cold cement wall until she forgot her own name, until the only thing echoing in this basement was her moans.
A low groan clawed out of me, chest heaving.
I gripped the tile just to steady myself.
