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Riff didn’t move toward me.
He stood there for just a moment before climbing into the tub, but leaving the curtain open as he turned the water on.
I could have left. Maybe I should have. But I took the open curtain as an invitation to stay, to watch, to give myself this chance to see how I reacted to having him close by and completely unclothed.
I didn’t feel fear.
I didn’t even feel anxiety.
No.
The way my pulse was thrumming in my chest and throat and, well, other places had nothing to do with panic and everything to do with interest.
Riff stood back under the spray, his head tilted back, eyes closed, and I was helpless but to watch the rivulets of water slide over his chest and sneak into the indents of his abdominal muscles.
My breath caught in my chest as his hand lifted, sliding up his thigh, then across, and gripping his cock with me standing just a few feet away.
Again, though, all I felt was, well, interest, as I stood watching him start to lazily stroke himself.
He wasn’t asking me for anything.
He was just letting me be there while he brought himself relief.
No pressure.
Just a new level of intimacy between us.
Riff’s head fell back as he sucked in a deep breath while his hand started to stroke faster and faster, driving him closer to that edge.
While desire pinged off of every one of my nerve endings, making my breathing get fast and frantic, and the recently sated ache between my legs returned and grew, until I was pressing my thighs together to ease the ache as I listened to Riff’s ragged breathing, heard his quiet groans, then watched as he finally made himself come, his whole body tensing hard with the intensity.
I was still standing there a few minutes later after he quickly washed himself up, grabbed a towel, wrapped it around his waist, and climbed out.
He drew closer, the heat from his body warming me as his hand lifted, gently snagging my chin, and drawing my head up.
His head tipped to the side as he looked at what had to be the evidence of the desire I was feeling all over my features.
“Are you done?” he asked, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “Or do you need a little more?” he asked.
When all I could manage was a little whimper, his eyes warmed as his hands sank into my hips, lifting me and placing me on the sink counter.
“Don’t worry,” he said, fingers tracing where my towel had split on my thighs. “I’m just going to taste you,” he told me, chasing any lingering worries about not being ready yet away as he lowered down.
When his hands reached for my knees, they fell open easily for him, inviting him in.
But he was taking his time, kissing up one thigh, then the other. Until I was writhing and my fingers were digging into his shoulders, silently begging for what my body was craving.
As if sensing I couldn’t take the sweet torment a moment longer, his face was where I needed him most, his tongue tracing up my cleft, then lazily circling my clit. Like he had all day. Like the need for release wasn’t steadily becoming a clawing pain again.
My fingers slid up his neck, sank into his wet hair, holding him against me as my hips rocked rhythmically.
But, still, he refused to give me exactly what I wanted.
It wasn’t until little whines were escaping me and my fingernails were digging into his skull that he finally let his tongue slide across my swollen, sensitive clit.
I nearly came right then and there.
The pleasure was almost blinding, dragging a loud moan out of me.
