Page 9 of Brushed and Buried
But his eyes never leave me.
No grin, scoff, or comment. Just…watching. Every shift of my body, every slick sound, every twitch of my hole as I work myself open; he’s drinking it in like he’s mad at it.
Now he’s watching me fuck myself on a couch at his best friend’s bachelor party.
So I smile.
Wider. Wilder.
I add a second finger, scissoring them open, moaning louder now, thighs trembling from the stretch. My eyes flutter shut, and I arch a little, shamelessly showing off the pink of my slick hole.
They groan. I hear Trevor’s beer hit the table, the soft rustle of someone adjusting their pants, the ragged panting from George beside him.
But all I can think of is Vince.
I want him to want it.
I want him to ache for it.
I spread my legs wider. The cool air ghosts across my skin. “Warm-up is everything.”
I circle my rim with two fingers, languid and intimate. The oil glistens in the soft amber light as I push inside with practiced ease. The guys collectively suck in a breath.
George, perched on the arm of the couch like a king surveying his territory, leans forward slightly. “That…looks too easy.”
“It’s supposed to be,” I answer with a smirk. “You play your partner’s body like an instrument; you touch it the way you want it to sing.”
Lance whistles, eyes wide and hungry. “What song would you usually do this to?”
“Oh, I have a playlist,” I say, reaching for my phone beside me. I tap on the screen a few times and let the sultry beat of “Streets” by Doja Cat pulse through the speakers.
“Just something slutty,” I grin.
Trevor laughs, lounging with his beer. “These are front-row seats to the best private show in town.”
I slide another finger in, angle slightly, and breathe out a ragged moan. I’m not faking it, not fully. This is still work, but I’ve always liked performing for a crowd.
“Can we…” Lance starts, then stops, color rising in his cheeks.
“Touch?” I finish for him, still working myself open. “I am all for hands-on learning.”
Trevor’s the first to move, hesitant fingers ghosting over my thigh. The contact sends a shiver through me that’s not entirely performance. Lance follows, palm flat against my hip, thumb tracing small circles.
George waits, watching their hands on me before placing one massive palm on my knee. His touch is careful, almost reverent.
“This okay?” Trevor asks, voice softer now.
“More than okay,” I breathe.
Lance clears his throat. “Okay, but…how do you know when you’re hitting the prostate? Like, is there a signal?”
I crook my fingers slightly, and my hips twitch. “Oh yeah. You’ll know. It’s like setting off fireworks in the spine. Pressure, not pain. And you aim up.”
“Up?” he repeats, miming the gesture with a surprised look.
George smirks. “Up makes sense. You’d wanna rub it in a come-hither motion?”
“You’re a natural,” I say, glancing at him.
