Page 91 of Wish Upon A Star

“I know that you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. There’s nothing you can do that would disappoint me or let me down or upset me, Wes…except suddenly not want me.”

“I didn’t stop us because I wanted to. Or because I don’t want you.”

I glide my hand down his chest, to his belly. To his erection. “So I could still do this?”

He stands upright, and now I can watch us in the mirror, my body almost entirely hidden behind his, just my pale, freckled forearm and small hand visible, and some of my face and bright orange hair.

“You could,” he murmurs.

I clasp him in both hands. Caress him. Slowly. Take my time. Feel him, enjoy the weight and thickness of him in my hands. Enjoy watching us in the mirror—it’s beautiful. His manhood, my hands. The contrast. The eroticism of it, us, reflected.

I can’t take my eyes off of our reflection as I caress his length until he starts huffing, and his hips flex forward.

“Jo,” he breathes. “God, Jo.” He’s watching, too. His eyes tell me he loves this as much as I do, watching us in the mirror.

I feel him approaching the edge, and I like that he’s quick to get there. I know he’ll hold out, make it last as long as possible, but I also like knowing I can make him feel so good he can’t help it. I consider using my mouth, but decide against it—there’s still a faint miasma of nausea I’m doing my best to ignore, and a general ache that makes getting down on my knees not a good idea.

Maybe in bed, where it’s soft and horizontal.

For now, I just enjoy watching my hands slide down his length, and I wonder at how familiar he feels, already. He’s mine. And I can’t wait to see and feel him lose his control, and even more, selfishly, I’m anticipating how he’s going to make me feel good when I’m done with him.

I want to make love to him.

This is a placeholder.

Not what I want.

But his reasoning has swayed me—as much as I want him, right now, as much as I want to know that feeling and that intimacy, right now, I want even more to have our first time making love for real to be a magical, unforgettable night of romance. And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that he’ll provide that, and it’ll be worth every minute of the wait.

Plus, this is nearly as fun.

He’s grunting, groaning. Pushing into my hands. His head tips back, and a growl snarls from his throat.

“Jo,” he breathes. “I’m…oh god, Jo. I’m coming.”

I slow my touch as he begins the explosion. One of my hands glides down his length, the other caresses in gentle circles around the head. He moans, chin dipping to his chest, hips locked forward as he lifts up onto his toes. And there it is, the warm wet rush of his seed splashing through my fingers. I pump him slowly, smearing his own sticky essence down his length, making my fist slide slick-smooth, and now I speed up my touch, fast and shallow around the upper portion, and he spurts into the sink, and over my hands and onto the counter, again and again.

Finished, finally, he sags, bracing his hands on the counter, head hanging. “Good lord, Jo.”

I kiss his spine. “I love doing that to you. I really do. I love watching you, feeling you.” I kiss his shoulder. “I love touching you. I love making you feel good. I love knowing I can do that to you.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, panting hard. “I’ve never felt the way you make me feel, Jo. I mean that. You touch me and it’s…it’s pure heaven. It’s ecstasy.”

There’s a washcloth folded on the towel rack. I reach around him and turn on the water, run it to warm, and rinse the washcloth. Use it to gently, lovingly clean him, and then the counter and sink, and then, last, wash my own hands.

When we’re clean, his eyes fix on me. Hunger burns in his gaze.

With eager hands, he scoops me up, and my legs clamp around his waist and I cling to his neck and his kiss meets mine, hunger meeting need, passion meeting arousal. His tongue is insistent and wild, and he moans into the kiss, and he walks with me out of the bathroom and suddenly I’m tipping backward onto our bed, and I love knowing that it’sourbed. Not his bed, or mine, but ours.

He kisses me there, for a long moment. Kisses me delirious, breathless. Until our mouths part and I’m panting. And then he kisses me again, but this time his lips touch my cheek. And then behind my ear. And his breath huffs hot on my ear.

“I’m going to eat you out until you scream my name,” he whispers.

I whimper at this, because I want it. I’m not ashamed of how badly I want it. “Please?” I whisper. “Please, Wes. I want it. I need it.”

“Need what?” he asks, his tone teasing.

“Your mouth on me.”