Page 16 of Keeping Ava

While he’s sweating and flexing and being hotter than sin, I’m taking the edge off.

It also helps to know that I’m safe here. To know that Elijah has cameras pointing at the door—the only entrance to his home—so I can give in to my shame without an audience.

It gives me a sense of comfort I haven’t felt in a while. I’m all alone and not panicking. Can enjoy this one miniscule indulgence.

Because I know that he’s always close by and will reach me within minutes if the worst happens.

Because I trust him.

Which is crazy since I barely know him. And it also doesn’t make it any less true.

It’s scary and maybe idiotic, and yet I do.

My heart knows it can trust him.

Which also creates another dilemma...

Every cell in my body is thrumming with need. To come with a cry of his name on my lips.

This is so wrong. I should stop.

I know I’m pushing my luck, and getting caught is not an option.

There would be no going back. How do I explain this?

And yet, I don’t stop.

My hand spreads the suds across my chest and down, over my sensitive skin that breaks out in goose bumps at the slightest touch. I shiver and bite my lip to fight back a moan while praying to God above that he gives me the will to stop.

Because while I’ve never physically been with a man, I do have needs. The desire to give in and find relief, to satisfy the urge that this man—Detective Ford—creates.

Days on end of lust have made me weak.

I also don’t have the help of a vibrator to help me. Just a tiny swipe of a pulsing toy would send me over the edge, a beautiful fall into an abyss I so desperately need.

“Elijah…” It leaves me on a whimper as I reach my mound and then lower, right over my trembling bundle of nerves and then to my lips. They’re soft and wet, slippery as I slip a finger between them while the heel of my palm presses against my clit. It feels good. Like a small pulse of pleasure rushing down my spine and then spreading throughout my limbs.

Yet my ache intensifies.

Grows with each touch.

Need more.

Pressing against my entrance, I push my index finger inside until the second knuckle and stop, savoring the way my body reacts. How tight I clamp down, and I can’t help but imagine it’s him. His cock, not my finger.

How thick he would be.

How his fingers would hold me—position me to his liking.

How I would let him.

My hips gyrate once, and then again. I want it deeper. To feel just a bit of the burn—how I will stretch around him—and I add a second finger.

At once I tremble.

I’m so close.

The heel of my palm adds pressure on each slow pump of my fingers, and I can just feel my orgasm fast approaching when the door to the house slams closed.

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