Page 24 of Contingently Yours

When he reaches my waist again, I know this strange blip in time is nearly up. Feeling greedy, I reach back and slide his hand around to my stomach, curious how he’ll treat my front or if his pampering of my back was just a fluke.

His flattened palm stays frozen just above my belly button.

Another gust of air hits my spine just below my neck.

This time it’s thicker, with more force behind it.

I’m holding my breath—something I don’t remember doing from someone’s touch since I was a teenager, first discovering sex.

His thumb moves first, shifting slowly upward.

And then his palm makes a slow circle over my stomach, spreading wildfire through my insides.

Jesus. It’s like he has magic hands. Big, magic, country-boy hands that have me going harder than I’ve ever been in my life.

When his fingers graze the sensitive flesh just above my cock, my dick bobs in the air like it knows he’s close and is begging for him to move his hand lower.

He doesn’t, though. He freezes, like maybe he felt the vibration.

Shit. He’ll probably turn around and act like a mannequin the way he does in bed every morning when my hand wanders over to his side. I need to know, though. Need to know what effect his touching me has on him. Because…well, because I just do.

Reaching back, I find his hip and pull him closer. A warm piece of flesh pokes the back of my thigh. It’s thick and veiny. The statue.

“You… you’re good,” he blurts, pulling away. “You’re done.”

I feel the bar of soap slap into my palm. I turn around and find him leaning against the shower stall, both hands on the wall, head down. His back is rising and falling.

It’s the most erotic statement I’ve ever witnessed, a piece of modern art, a conversation piece. Anyone standing around a gallery viewing his pose would be whispering, ‘ Lucas likes touching him .’ I shudder so hard, my knees nearly buckle.

I think I used to hate him because, while physically he portrayed this big, tough image on the outside, he always looked kind of pathetic.

Like a man who never got what he wanted, nor knew how to.

Fuck me three ways to Sunday for discovering that is somehow a turn on for me now.

He made me feel ashamed that I always get what I want, like it somehow meant I hadn’t earned it because I didn’t suffer in silence like him.

I refuse to feel ashamed, though, for not being such a pushover that I’d pay for a wedding that never happened and pretend to chum it up with an ex-best friend who stole my girl.

I refuse to feel bad that I don’t have the kind of relationship with my family that involves braiding anyone’s hair.

And right now, as I catch the way his eyes are pinched shut tight—the way his lungs are expanding like he’s willing his cock to stand down—I refuse to neglect the other superpower that life granted me.

I do always get what I want. Like hell I’m stopping now.

It doesn’t matter that what I happen to want this time is a first for me.

Stepping up flush behind him, I reach underneath his arms and press the bar of soap to his stomach. It flexes underneath my touch when I scrub it in a circle to form a lather.

“No. I’m not done,” I whisper at the back of his ear. “I missed a few spots.”

When I feel a good froth of bubbles, I lower a hand to his happy trail and run my fingers through the wet hair there. It’s a foreign sensation, but it’s familiar too. It might not be a woman’s smooth navel, but it’s taut flesh that’s registering the desire I’ve stoked there with my touch.

“I…I can do it,” he rasps, cupping my wrist.

His grip is so lackluster, it feels like I just won an award. “It’s okay. I don’t mind helping my boyfriend out,” I assure him, inching my fingers closer to one side of the hot V at his hip juncture.

The hair gets coarser the lower I go. I reach a patch near the side of his cock, and he lets out a strangled noise.

His fingers dig into my wrist, but don’t pull me back.

I know it’s just petting in the grand scheme of foreplay, but there’s something so carnal about it.

The hair, his reaction—and mine. My balls are drawn up so tight, it feels like I’m going to choke on them.

“ Sooo tufty,” I murmur, running my index and middle fingertips through his jungle, weirdly enamored with how soft it is. “Gotta wash my tuft good.”

My two-inch height difference gives me one hell of a view. His cock jolts upward in the air and he sputters. If he runs on me out of fear of the unknown right now, I might kick his ass. I didn’t know a vein statue in an uncharted tuft jungle could make my mouth water this much.

“Listen to you…fucking mouth breathing just from me soaping you up. You love it, don’t you?

Leaning my hips forward, I press my thickened cock against the back of his thigh.

It’s a helpful suggestion. A white flag, if you will, to help him overcome any embarrassment over his current state.

“ Love me touching your tuft,” I repeat nonsensically with my lips against that pulsing cord in his neck.

“Andrew…” The breathy croak of my name on his lips is a liquid injection of arousal that goes straight to my dick, making it kick against his thigh.

The soap falls from my grasp, so I replace it with something else solid, wrapping my hand around his cock. I’m winging it here, having only ever specialized in teasing breasts and clits, but so far, determination and instinct don’t seem to be letting me down.

“What?” I rasp in his ear, giving him a squeeze. “Is this what you want? Is that why you’ve been pissy all day? Because I didn’t finish what we started this morning?”

Maybe he meant to say a word, but all that comes out is a garbled, desperate noise. He shudders again, making his cock slip forward in my grip. It’s slick from the soap and water, and I can feel his pulse in it under my touch.

As far as I know, hands don’t have erogenous zones, so why is the feel of his flesh in my grip so thrilling?

I want to stroke him and see what other noises I can pull from him.

He’s good and thinks I’m bad , and the thought of Lucas being enamored with a bad man is a fantasy I can’t seem to eject from my brain.

I want to feel what his cock is like from root to tip while it’s soaked, but his little wiggle gives me a better idea.

“Then move , Lucas,” I whisper, holding my grip in place. “Show me what you want.”

His hips jerk forward with a full-body spasm. “Fuck,” he gasps.

I say the word with him, completely in awe of the effect my sexy talk is having on him. He’s helpless to it. Totally helpless. And apparently, so am I, because I give him a languid stroke from base to tip.

“That’s it, Tufty. Use my hand.”

I wait. And then I wait some more, suspended in anticipation of him answering my plea.

I can feel every rigid muscle in his back pressed against my chest. Feel the way his body is coiled in need as much as my own.

The flash of ideas going through my mind about what I want to do to him is astounding.

As much as I want to act on them right now, I don’t.

An invisible wall of restraint is stepping on the neck of the greedy voice inside of me. More than I want to listen and give in to that voice, I want him to take what he wants.

Come on, Lucas , I growl inside my head. For once in your life, do something for yourself. Be as bad as me.