* * *
I wakeup in the middle of the night with an ache between my legs, a wet throb. Dregs of a dream linger behind my eyes—Rev, hovering over me, broad hard shoulders and wide thick chest angled toward me, soft lips on mine, rough hands on my skin.
I try to get back to sleep, but it evades me.
I close my eyes, and Rev is there, growling my name in that sexy rough snarl of his, and my skin tingles as if he was there with me, touching me.
The ache at the apex of my thighs is relentless.
“Gosh darn it,” I whisper, sitting up. “This isn’t good.”
The room doesn’t respond.
My core throbs, and I press my thighs together in a vain attempt to alleviate the heat and pressure. It’s pointless—all the thigh-rubbing-together does is serve to highlight that I’m absolutely drenched, down there.
There’s only one thing to do, and I’m reluctant to do it. I’ve never done it while thinking about a real person, before, or at least not someone I actually know in real life.
First time for everything, I guess, right?
My vibrator is in my bag with my makeup, requiring I actually get out of bed. I fetch it and jump back in bed, feeling embarrassed even though I’m alone. The room next to mine is empty, as is the next one. Cheeks flaming hot, sex throbbing, I shimmy out of my sleep shorts and push my panties to my knees, twist the vibrator on.
Touch my clit with it—I jolt, immediately more than halfway there. My eyes slide closed and I involuntarily draw up an image of Rev. Standing beside my bed, in those tiny green shorts. My subconscious apparently drew a pretty great mental image of him, the first time I saw him in that doorway. All power, rippling with muscle, chest heaving, sweat running down his slick body in rivulets. Those ridiculous green shorts bulged at the front, and my imagination does a pretty impressive job of picturing what might be underneath the slippery green material.
Thick, hard, brown, standing flat against his belly.
Oh gosh.
He just stands there, impassive, as I reach out…my small white hand wraps around his organ, and the only indication he gives that he feels anything is that pulsing of his jaw. Maybe a deep breath, let out slowly as my fingers travel slowly down…and up.
I don’t let myself think about the fact that I’m picturing Rev this way. Using him this way. He lets me caress his length a few times, and then I’m flat on my back and his scratchy, stubbly jaw is scraping against my thighs.
I slide the vibrator inside myself, using two fingers against my clit, and I play with the imagined sensation of his mouth on my sex. Not my fingers, his lips, his tongue. It’s not my vibrator inside me, it’s him, his fingers, sliding it, scissoring, squelching. His tongue lapping at me, sliding against my clit, swirling. Fingers caressing inside me.
Stroking me, in and out. Unhurried.
Until I start coming.
And then his touch is fast, almost rough. I use the vibrator on myself the way I like it when I’m thrashing in the throes of orgasm—fast, hard, rough.
The way I like it. The way I’ve always wanted it.
My hips buck, and I cry out through clenched teeth, and then the cry breaks into a breathy, half-screamed whimper as the climax tears through me.
Leaves me, eventually, and I’m gasping.
“Oh wow,” I whisper to the room. “He gives amazing orgasms, even when he doesn’t know he’s doing it.”
The room doesn’t answer, of course. And my imagined version of Rev fades away, leaving me aching even more than before, but now with an added feeling of guilt.
4Fisticuffs
Rev
I’ve held out for a week and a half.
Meaning, I haven’t slept for shit in that same time. Meaning, I toss and turn, flip and flop, all because every damn time I close my eyes, I see thatfuckin’ woman.
Myka.
