Protect Me Not ((Un)Professionally Yours 2)

“You misunderstand, sweetie,” she said gently, shocking him with the—frankly adorable—endearment. “The blindfold’s not for me.”

His momentary distraction at the pet name didn’t last long, and he found himself unable to stop the scowl from creeping onto his face when her words sank in. She smiled when she saw it, and he was relieved that she wasn’t intimidated by the expression that others had told him could make grown men cower in terror.

She wriggled even more until she was sitting upright, and he scooted back, allowing her the space to do so.

She smoothed the hair back from his forehead, a gesture so damned affectionate and caring it shook him to his core. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had touched him with such tenderness. The smile on her face matched the action.

“Give,” she whispered, holding a hand palm-up. Understanding that she meant the scarf, he reluctantly relinquished it to her care. “I told you, things were going to be a bit different, right? You okay with that?”

He nodded warily.

“Get up.” Her voice had deepened into a throaty husk at the back of her throat.

He swallowed dryly—not sure where this was going—but willing, for now, to humor her.

“Strip for me,” she murmured. He gaped at her in shock.

“W-what?”

“You heard me,” she said, inserting some authority into her voice. “I want you to strip, mister. Right now.”

His lips quirked. The bossy tone didn’t suit her, but he shrugged and reached for his belt buckle. He needed to relieve the pressure on his aching cock anyway. It looked like the fastest way to achieve that would be to do as she commanded.

“Uh-uh,” she breathed, and his hands faltered. “Slowly.”

He complied, moving at a painstakingly slow pace as he unbuckled his belt and—adding some flare to what was essentially becoming a fucking striptease—dragged it—inch by painful inch—out of the loops, before dropping it to the carpeted floor.

A fractured moan from his audience of one told him he was doing a good job. She was kneeling in the middle of his bed—fully clothed—one hand tucked into her low bodice, thumbing a nipple. Her hand other was cupping her pussy over the dress. She rocked her hips back and forth… Her eyelids had slid to half-mast, her lips were parted and moist, her curls were a wild, tangled mess around her face…but her eyes were glued to his every move.

He had never seen her look more turned on. It was hot as fuck.

He palmed his cock, adjusting himself, and released a few buttons of his fly to ease the ache, before trailing his hand upward to the hem of his t-shirt. Her gaze followed the movement, her expression rapt.

“Take it off,” she commanded, but her voice had lost its edge. Instead, it sounded like a plea. But she was the boss—for now—and he would comply.

But… sloooooooooooooooooooooooowly.

He dragged the fabric up a millimeter at a time, revealing the body he had selfishly kept restricted from her, to that enrapt gaze of hers.

Goddamn—the woman was staring at him like she was starving, and he was breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert, all wrapped up in one.

She was panting by the time he had removed the t-shirt and dropped it to the floor, and she thirstily drank in every detail of his body.

He couldn’t lie to himself. He fucking loved it. Loved having her eyes on him. Loved the way they darted from abs, to chest, to tattoo. Back to abs, down to straining cock, to tattoo…and back to abs. He suppressed a grin and flexed his abs for her, since she seemed so fucking taken with them. He was rewarded with a gasping moan, and her diddling fingers seemed to increase their already frantic movements. She was stunning in her single-minded pursuit of her own pleasure, and Ty vowed to keep that expression on her face as much as possible for the rest of their time together.

He tucked a hand into the loosened waist of his jeans and fisted his cock, stroking himself leisurely as he watched her masturbate.

“No,” she croaked. He stopped and withdrew his hand while he awaited further instruction. This was seriously fucking hot. He wasn’t used to allowing anyone so much control over his movements—or his body—but he couldn’t get enough of this.

“I want to see you do that.”

“Do what?” he asked, just to be contrary.

“I want to see you masturbate.”

“I prefer to call it jerking off,” he informed her. He didn’t honestly have a preference, he just wanted to hear her say the words.

“I want to see it,” she repeated and licked her lips. Her hands had gone still, no longer tugging at her nipple or grinding on her clit. Instead, she watched him and waited.

But he didn’t move, wanting a specific instruction.

“Please, Ty.”

“Please what, honey? You have to be clear. I don’t want to do the wrong thing.”