tinge. I imagine how I look in his eyes. I’m slender and petite. My breasts are perky, but they aren’t the best in town by any means. Still, judging by the way he’s looking at me, I think he quite likes them.
I reach out to grip him again, and then his hand reaches out to touch me. He drags the pad of his finger softly over my collarbone and then lower, curving around my left breast. Teasing me. That’s fine—I’ll tease him right back. I slow my pace, sliding my hands up and down his length in a rhythm that’s no doubt pissing him off. His eyes flare with emotion as they lock with mine, and I smile. It’s innocence personified, but he reads between the lines. His brows furrow and he reaches out to skim his hand over my breast. I arch into him, and he rewards me for it. He cups the weight in his hand, feeling it, and I think—not for the first time—that he’s got lovely hands. They’re big and calloused and confident, the hands of a man who takes what he wants.
I start to pump harder, faster. He responds in kind, thrusting his hips as he feels me up.
It only takes a few more times before he grunts low and deep, and then he’s coming onto my hands, onto my chest. My jaw goes slack as I watch him.
It’s…beautiful.
Is that odd? To think he looks beautiful right now? It’s in the angular cut of his jaw and his manly features all locked in pleasure, the way his muscles clench and the absolute surrender of it all—him in my hands, all mine.
It takes him a moment to orient himself again, and he doesn’t open his eyes right away. He releases a long exhalation, blinks one eye open. Then the other. He looks down at me with a lazy smile, and I grin up at him.
“You’ve really made a mess. I hope you’re happy.”
He laughs and shakes his head, looking around for something to help us clean up. There’s nothing. A maid must have come round to clean his flat because there’s not a single thing out of place in the room, except for…well, us.
“Don’t move,” he tells me before rushing down a side hall. He comes back carrying a towel, and instead of passing it over, he kneels down to clean me up himself. It’s only the beginning. I’ll still need a shower, but it’s lovely to have him dote on me like that. When we’re done, he wads the towel in one hand and reaches for me with the other.
“Come on. Let’s shower.”
“Oh, together?! Lovely. But you need to slow down! My legs are half as long as yours and you can’t just drag me along after you.”
It’s true. I think he forgets how small I am compared to him. He takes one step and it covers half the length of the room! Meanwhile, I’m left scurrying in his wake.
He laughs and slows his gait exasperatingly. “Sorry. Habit.”
We go down a hallway then turn a corner. He opens a door, and we’re in his room. I was in here before, but not during the day when I was fully awake enough to appreciate it in all its glory. It’s not like a room some lazy boy would do up if he had it his way. Oh I’ll just tack a sheet up against the window. That oughta do it. No, his room is definitely decorated, and it’s masculine. The bed is covered in white and gray linen. He’s got lovely wooden side tables with twin hunter green lamps on each side. There’s black and white abstract art on the wall and a plush rug covering the dark wood floors.
I’m amazed, really. His room is the size of my entire flat. I think my twin bed could fit over in that nook there just fine. He wouldn’t even notice.
“Come on. Shower’s in here.”
“This is your bathroom?!” I sort of shout before I can get ahold of myself.
Last time I was in here, it was pitch black. Now I can see it’s ridiculously nice. It’s just so bloody big with lots of marble and mirrors and two sinks on opposite ends so that if he had a girl living here with him, she wouldn’t have to deal with any of his whiskers—though even now, as I inspect what I assume is his side (it’s the sink with a toothbrush by it), it’s sparkling clean. Either he’s the