Shane (Damage Control 4)

That’s my yes.

She seems to get the message, because she kisses me back, but then climbs onto the bed and scoots back. Her blue eyes are bright, her pale hair glinting, the pale stretch of her neck dragging my eyes down her cleavage.

I swallow, try to speak.

“What do you want?” she whispers, and oh fuck, she’s grabbing the hem of her blouse, tugging it up. “Do you want me?”

“Hell, yeah.” I watch, hypnotized, as she tugs it over her head and off, throwing it to the floor somewhere.

Underneath she’s wearing a thin tank top, a deep blue that matches her eyes and barely hides her tits. A pendant hanging on a black leather string dips between them. Her nipples are hard, poking through the flimsy fabric, and I grunt, shifting on the bed, reaching down to push on my dick.

“Do you think of me when you jack off?”

“Every time,” I say, unable to keep the truth from spilling. “Every night, ever since I met you.”

Something goes through her eyes, and it looks like excitement and happiness and somehow also like pain.

“How do you imagine me?” She’s kneeling on my bed, in her tight jeans and even tighter tank top, the creamy skin of her tits and shoulders and arms almost glowing—and her question takes forever to sink in—because my brain is sluggish, deprived of oxygen.

Breathing is important, I realize, and suck in air, almost choking on it.

Shit.

“You’re serious,” I manage after the second try.

“You bet I am.” She smiles, leans forward more, and her tits strain against her top. My breathing is still uncertain, as if my lungs forgot how to work, and I stare, my mouth parched.

“Do you want me to undress?” she asks. “Would you like to watch while I do that? Want to see me naked?”

Holy fuck. “Yeah.”

“What else?” She leans back again, gives me a look from heavy-lidded eyes and Christ, she’s so sexy. “Want me to touch myself while you jack off?”

I groan, unable to help myself. This has to be one of those good dreams, the ones that have me waking up gasping, a hot sticky mess in my sheets.

But if she’s serious…

“Why…?” I swallow, force the question out. “Why are you doing this?”

“I told you. You’re hot. You’re the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.” And when I gape at her, disbelieving, her smile returns, sweeter than before. “I need to know your triggers before we try anything else. And I want to try more stuff. Because I like you. A lot.”

Shaking my head to myself, I turn so that I can stretch out my legs on the bed, my back propped on the wall.

Come on. Things like that don’t happen to me. Hell, they don’t happen to guys in general, period. Not with girls like Cassie. I mean, fuck, she’s a sex goddess. Hot as hell. Prettiest girl on earth. The fact she wants to try with a fucked up guy like me, do this so we can explore what makes my screwed up mind tick and what sets me off, because she likes—

Oh shit. Whoa. Time-out. Brain is now officially off.

She’s undressing.

I tip my head back, my dick burning, pulsing in my pants as she unbuttons her jeans and pushes them down. Her legs are smooth and long, her panties hot pink and tiny. She sits on the mattress across from me, and tugs her tank top off, revealing her hot pink bra, and I cup my hard-on, helplessly thrusting against my hand.

Holy shit.

With her hair loose, her expression soft, her tits threatening to burst from her bra, her pussy barely covered, she’ll be the death of me.

Death by arousal. Christ.

“Your turn,” she says, her voice low, flickering over my skin. “Take off your pants. I want to see you, too.”