Page 63 of A Real Goode Time

He was leaning into me, on his side, while I was on my back. And my hands decided to acquire a mind of their own, and I reached for him.

I did it on purpose. I’m not going to hide behind “oh, I was so lost in need I didn’t know what I was doing.” I knew what I wanted: to feel him in my hand.

To know if the improbable girth I’d felt would be as fat and hard in my fist as it felt against my core and belly.

He was wearing tight black briefs. And god, they were brief. I felt his belly, the planes and bulges of his abs. The elastic band of his underwear, at his hipbone. As he’d done, I teased a finger under the elastic and ran it over toward the middle. And met…him. Springy and warm and soft, yet firm. I tugged down, and took his cock into my fist.

And yeah, oh yeah, it was everything I’d felt and more. So…fucking…thick. Long, too. God, what a dick. I caressed it, marveling.

He groaned. “Ohh Jesus, Torie. You can’t do that too much,” he breathed against my breast. “Been so worked up for so long I’ll go in a second if you don’t stop.”

“Don’t wanna,” I gasped. “Love how you feel.”

He flexed his hips. “Gonna pop off like I’m fuckin’ fourteen again.”

“Don’t care.” I grabbed his wrist and guided his hand closer to my core. “More of this, please.”

He rumbled a laugh and delved his finger into me.

I reached up, clasped the back of his head and drew him down to my breasts. “More of this, too.”

He laughed, but it was a wild, nervous, tense laugh, because I was caressing him, and I felt him flex his abs, pull his belly in as I slid my fist around him, up the glorious length of him, fingers barely able to circle the huge thickness of his shaft. I focused on feeling him in my hand—both hands, and still there was so much cock left to caress. Ridges of veins, closely trimmed thatch of dark hair, the grooved ring around the top where my fingers fit perfectly. I rubbed my thumb over the tiny hole in the top, exploring the broad roundness of the head. Smearing his seeping pre-cum along the head.

He groaned, his hips flexed.

With his fingers inside me, his lips on my nipples, I was his for the taking.

I was right there. Trembling. On the edge.

Aching.

Shaking.

My hips flexed up, and he slid two fingers into me, curled them and drew them out and smeared my juices over my clit, and I cried out, feeling it hit me, letting myself fly over the edge. I curled upward, into him, gripping hard him in my fist as I came with the force of a thousand hurricanes, screaming, my spine arched in an upward bow, hips flying against his fingers as they circled my clit with blinding speed, as if he just knew how to touch me, how to make me come, and what I liked and needed.

He was there, on the edge, too. I knew he was close.

I moved my hands along his length.

“Torie, I—shit, I don’t want to come like this.”

“I just did,” I breathed.

“But I wantyou.” He couldn’t help pushing into my touch, even as he tried to pull away. “I want more than just your hands. I need you.”

No, no, no.

Now the niggling worm in the back of my head erupted into an evil dragon.

I didn’t want to heed it.

It was roaring two words:TELL HIM!

NO.

He’d freak.

He wouldn’t want me anymore.