“Doesn’t even know what she’s saying anymore, or doing. She might tell you to bite, to fuck her with your tongue and fingers, harder or faster or some word that doesn’t even make sense. Hips coming up to meet you, greedy for it, horny for it, so horny she barely notices that her hand is in your hair and she’s squeezing tight enough for it to sting, so close to coming that her whole body is shuddering and shivering and flushed that deep, good pink. Soon as you see it you just know she’s burning. That her clit is aching and throbbing and her pussy is all open and slippery, and one more second of this will make her come. She’s already coming, before you even know where you’re at. Hard, hard, hard, like she never has before.”
She was holding her breath by the time he was done. She practically had to—his face was so close now she could have blinked and brushed his cheek with her eyelashes. Every word he said seemed to stroke against her face, cool at first but then more heated. As though he was starting to boil alive inside, too. Certainly he looked that way. She has never seem him flushed like this, not even when he pushed himself during a match.
Not even when he was embarrassed.
Though she supposed that wasn’t a common occurrence. He didn’t seem to be embarrassed now, and he’d just said all those words. He said clit and pussy and slippery, as if that was just a normal way to talk to your friend. And he did it all without flinching, too. Without glancing away or putting some distance between them. In fact, those eyes of his—now heavy lidded and so soft focus—seemed intent on her more than they ever had been before. They skittered all over her face, searching for something she had no idea how to give.
She didn’t even know what the something was.
She only knew that it made her forget herself, just as he had described.
It made her search his face back, marveling over every brutish line and gentle curve. Those lips of his, as plump as a girl’s yet so masculine at the same time. Like they’d been punched to swollen sweetness, without the stain of a bruise or the slash of some bloody split. Every inch of them gleaming, as if he’d slicked them with gloss in anticipation of a kiss.
Though even in that moment she didn’t really believe she wanted that.
Until he whispered, low and heavy against her own lips.
“You can, you know.”
“Can what?”
“Touch yourself.”
It jolted her, when he said it.
But not as much as realizing why he said it.
She followed his gaze down, and took in the unmistakable sight of her hand in her lap. Really, really high up in her lap. Almost between her legs, in fact—though that was fine, it was cool, it was okay. She stuttered no, no I didn’t really want to do that, but it didn’t matter.
Because his hand was actually between his legs.
“I do,” he said.
As the whole world as she knew it dissolved right in front of her eyes.
“You do?”
“Fuck, yes. I’m dying to.”
“Because of the film. Because of the movie.”
“Sure. We can say that, if you want.”
She closed her eyes. Swallowed thickly.
Wished hard that he hadn’t added that last part.
“If we could that would be awesome.”
“No problem. I mean it was probably inevitable that this would happen to us.”
“Probably, yeah. Almost definitely, in fact.”
“Just a natural response to a sexy movie.”
“Seems that way to me.”
“So you just slip your hand under your waistband, and I’ll slip my hand under mine,” he said, which was fine all on its own. The problem was that he then went ahead and did it. She tried not to look, but saw anyway. She saw the way he fumbled in his haste, as though all his talk was only calm on the surface. Underneath, something was paddling frantically. It was making his cheeks pink and his body all trembly.
And his dick hard. God, his dick was hard.
She could see that without even trying at all. The curving shape beneath his sweatpants was enormous and unmistakable, and even if it hadn’t been, his hand made it pretty clear. As she watched, he eased it over that solid length, before finally clasping it in a way that shoved the swollen head right up against the tented material. Now she could make out ruder details, like the thick ridge around the head, and the slit at the tip. Both pronounced, explicit, rude.
But that wasn’t what really got her.
It was the way he stopped to lick his palm, before shoving it under his waistband.
“Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god, are you serious?”
“It’s cool. it’s fine. We don’t even have to look at each other.”
“No I guess not. I guess…I guess that I can just watch the screen.”
“We’re just two people getting off over a hot movie.”
“Exactly. Exactly.”
But that wasn’t strictly true. She wasn’t getting off over the movie at all. Nothing was even happening anymore—it was just rich people looking down their noses and arguments over a Dustbuster. If anything, it was vaguely depressing, rather than lust-inducing.
Yet still she sat there, face burning, body tender and rigid all at the same time. Half of her stuffed so full of embarrassment and shock she sort of wanted to block everything out, the other half just shamelessly straining to hear every single tiny sound he made. Never daring to look, of course, but then…