He nods, sloppily, as if drunk. “God—oh god. Yeah.”
“Better?”
“Don’t—don’t stop, Jo. Please. Just like that.”
Slick with the conditioner, now, my fist glides smoothly over his erection. I go slow.
His growl is feral. His hips push forward, jerkily. “Shit, Jo. Oh god, oh shit,Jo—”
He lifts up onto his toes to drive his erection through my downward-plunging fist, and I meet his movements, sliding down when he lifts up. Match his speed, little by little, faster and faster.
He’s not breathing anymore—each breath is a rough snarl; half growl, half grunt.
And then his head flings backward, and his muscles tense, and I watch eagerly as I stroke him, my touch squelching and slicking and sliding.
“Jo!” he shouts.
And his erection pulses in my fist, and I watch as thick, viscous white liquid, his cum, spurts out of the tip of him and splashes against my belly and over my hand. I keep going, because he’s still growling and thrusting. Again, he spurts, and now his seed mixes with the conditioner smearing my hand and his member. Another jet leaves him, accompanied by a deep-throated groan, lifting up onto his toes, driving into my touch.
God, it’s beautiful.
Messy.
But beautiful.
He’s wild, half animal, crazed. Completely under my thrall, locked into my touch. I remember how I felt, when he was making me come—maddened, primal, desperate. I would have done anything, said anything, to keep him touching me, to keep the feeling going.
So I keep touching him, stroking him as he comes and comes, spurting his seed onto my hand and belly and himself. He slows, and quiets, and I don’t stop.
Finally, I feel him subsided in my hand, fading.
He’s gasping as if he sprinted a mile.
“Jolene…my god.” His eyes meet mine, awed, overcome. “God, that was the most incredible thing I’ve ever felt.”
I swell with pride. “For real?”
“I swear to god, Jo. I’m…I can barely stand up.”
I’m still holding him—but now it’s half the size it was, if not smaller. Soft, almost delicate…and kind of funny. I look down at the thing in my palm, and I have to stifle a snicker.
He notices, however. “Are you laughing at my flaccid penis, Jolene Park?” His voice is wry, arch.
I press my lips together, eyes wide, and shake my head. “No sir, Mr. Westley, sir.” I clench my jaw around another snort of laughter. “I would never. That would be unkind.”
He holds a frown, and then a snort escapes him, and that breaks mine loose, and suddenly we’re both laughing. “I mean, it is, objectively, kind of a funny thing, isn’t it?”
I’ve dissolved into laughter, my forehead against his chest, hot water beating on my spine and shoulders. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I don’t know why it’s so funny.” I straighten and hold up my hand. “You weren’t kidding about the mess.”
He twists me to face the spray, my back to his front, and I rinse my hands. His palms scour my body—he’s poured a dollop of shower gel into his hand and he’s lathering me. Washing me carefully, gently, affectionately. Not missing an inch. Shoulders, throat, breastbone, arms—breasts, tenderly, with extra attention. Then my belly, washing away the evidence of his release. Hips. Thighs. I lean back against him, rest my head on his shoulder as his touch drifts aimlessly over my belly, hips, and thighs. I widen my stance, cling to his arms barred over my torso.
“Touch me, Wes,” I whisper. “Please. Make me—” I drop my voice even lower, so I’m not sure he can even hear me over the hiss of the shower. “Make me come.” The unfamiliar words, the strange, sinful meaning of them—they burn my tongue and torch my throat, scorch my lips. I like it. It’s not…dirty. Not sinful. The words taste delicious. I say them again, to feel them. Say them louder. More boldly. “Make me come, Wes. Please.”
He rumbles wordlessly in his chest, and his fingers find me, and delve into me, seeking the soaked, slippery warmth of my sex. One touch, and my body is on fire. Heat and pressure are volcanic within me. My sex feelssowet, slippery and slick—drenched. Making me ready for his touch. His fingers slide into me, one, and then two together, stretching and filling me—then pressing and circling over my clit, and my knees buckle and a whimper escapes my gritted teeth.
“Oh god,Wes!” I cry, and I can’t keep my voice quiet anymore. The desperation is upon me, instantly.
I need his touch. I need more. I reach up and back and clutch his head, scratching my fingernails over his scalp, through his hair. Then drop them and reach back to grab at his buttocks. Pull him against me—I feel his manhood against me, sticky, a thick lump between our bodies, nestled against my backside. I like it. I like everything about this. About Wes. His body. My body. Touching. The sensuality. The thrill. The heights of pleasure and the delightful, incredible journey to climax.
