But the longer he kisses me, the greater the temptation grows. My hips push against his fingers, seeking the kind of caress that’s eluding me. He doesn’t give it to me. He can’t. He doesn’t know how. But my fingers are right there, and they’re impossibly slippery from the force of my need. Every muscle in my body draws tight as an A string.
One of my fingers twitches, betraying my control, and I rub myself the way I like. Just a little, I tell myself. Just a little. I cry out against Quan’s mouth as my arousal sharpens almost painfully.
“That’s it,” he whispers as he pulls his hand away, leaving me to touch myself freely.
I shouldn’t, but I do it again. And then again, moaning his name. My sex clenches hard, and my hips jerk.
“Don’t stop,” he says, kissing my temple, my cheek, my mouth, my jaw.
I do it again, and the sound of my fingers fluttering over my slick flesh is loud in the dark of the room. Loud, and starkly erotic.
“So fucking hot,” he whispers in my ear, and I glow inside at his praise.
Driven by the desire to hear more, I cave in, and I touch myself with abandon as I lick his lips and spear my tongue into his mouth, bite his bottom lip, his chin, suck on the strong cords of his neck. I rise quickly toward orgasm, but then I hover at the edge, unable to go over, as insidious thoughts invade my head.
I must look so funny right now, touching myself when I have this beautiful man here. I should have sex the right way, let him do the touching. I should be easy to pleasure. I should orgasm for him instantly, multiple times, every time, any time he wants me to. People would laugh at me if they saw.
He kisses me and whispers encouragement as I tremble in his arms. But he doesn’t quite drown out the voices in my head. They have gotten too loud. My hips twitch as I undulate against my hand, chasing a release that remains out of reach until sweat covers my body.
His hand strokes my inner thigh, and my heart lurches. I freeze, afraid he’ll investigate what I’m doing and find out how I need to touch myself, how strange I am. I don’t want him to know. He can’t know.
“I can’t—it’s not—we need to stop,” I say, and it sounds like pleading.
“Okay. We’ll stop.” His words are husky, rough, but he does as I ask. He stops. He rolls onto his back and pulls me partially onto his chest, where I hear the wild beating of his heart, feel the deep billowing of his breaths. Farther below, his sex is like a brand against my leg, stiff and hot.
A sense of failure makes me want to cry. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says.
“But I didn’t. And you didn’t.” I can’t bring myself to say what we didn’t.
“We did a lot.”
“You’re not angry?” I ask.
“No, I’m not angry,” he all but growls as he hugs me tighter. “I’m fucking proud of you. I’m honored that you trusted me. I’m not angry, not even a little.”
“You’re still . . .” I shift my leg and move my hand from his chest downward. He stops me, pinning my hand against his stomach.
“Next time maybe,” he rasps.
“You want there to be a next time?”
“Yes, I want there to be a next time. I want there to be lots of times.”
“You might get really . . .” I’m not sure how to phrase it in a way that sounds good and settle on . . . “sexually frustrated. If you keep waiting for me.”
“Then I’ll get sexually frustrated,” he says.
I almost tell him that by choosing to wait, he’s putting pressure on me, but I don’t. This isn’t just about me. It’s about both of us. He has his own reasons for needing things to be a certain way, and I respect that.
Feeling wrung out and exhausted, I ask, “Do we sleep now?”
“Are you inviting me to stay?”
I’m tired, but I smile. “Yes.”
“Then yeah, let’s sleep now.”