Jack's breath is hot against my belly, the holes Blue tore in it leaving absolutely no barrier between his mouth and my skin. I swear my whole body shivers as he looks at me, eyes wide and dark. Goodness, he looks hungry.
How do I get him to never stop looking at me like that?
My breath catches as he squeezes me, my pants already getting tighter by the second, especially when he slides those hands around to the front of my jeans, expertly popping free the top button. "Oh God," I breathe, swaying forward as all the blood in my body seems to rush south.
"Is that... You-- You really wanna watch that?"
I've never really thought about it that way, like a performance. When I pictured it back in the Haus it was always something we were doing together, furtive under the sheets, staring at each other across the hall or sometimes in the same room. Usually, I just pictured him, how he might look stretched out naked in his bed, touching himself lazily, the muscles in his arm and abdomen and thighs clenching and shifting with every stroke. In my fantasies, I've always been the one watching.
Swallowing, I manage a nod then. Because, as scary as it might be, there's something heady about Jack wanting to see that, wanting to see me.
I slide my hands down his shoulders and over his arms, squeezing firm muscle and soft skin. There isn't a single spot on his entire body I don't want to touch. "Can I watch you too, maybe? Or we could, uhm. We could do it together." And then maybe I'll know how to touch him if and when we get to that. It's not like I've had any practice on anyone but myself before and that's hardly practice at all.
no subject
How do I get him to never stop looking at me like that?
My breath catches as he squeezes me, my pants already getting tighter by the second, especially when he slides those hands around to the front of my jeans, expertly popping free the top button. "Oh God," I breathe, swaying forward as all the blood in my body seems to rush south.
"Is that... You-- You really wanna watch that?"
I've never really thought about it that way, like a performance. When I pictured it back in the Haus it was always something we were doing together, furtive under the sheets, staring at each other across the hall or sometimes in the same room. Usually, I just pictured him, how he might look stretched out naked in his bed, touching himself lazily, the muscles in his arm and abdomen and thighs clenching and shifting with every stroke. In my fantasies, I've always been the one watching.
Swallowing, I manage a nod then. Because, as scary as it might be, there's something heady about Jack wanting to see that, wanting to see me.
I slide my hands down his shoulders and over his arms, squeezing firm muscle and soft skin. There isn't a single spot on his entire body I don't want to touch. "Can I watch you too, maybe? Or we could, uhm. We could do it together." And then maybe I'll know how to touch him if and when we get to that. It's not like I've had any practice on anyone but myself before and that's hardly practice at all.