Apologize.

His name was on my tongue, slipping past my lips before I could pull it back.

“You’re having a good morning.”

My eyes flew open, finding Theo in the

doorway, a slight smirk hooking his lips.

My heart pounded with the possibilities of what he’d seen… or heard. I lifted my hand from between my legs, prepared to stop and die a slow death somewhere, humiliation coursing hot through my veins, when he growled, “Don’t fucking stop.”

It was only a split second hesitation.

I kept going, slower at first. He leaned with one shoulder against the doorframe, glued to me. At first, there was that damn apathy in his gaze. It was infuriating, but somehow so hot.

There was something about the impassive way he studied me that made my heart pound. It was as if what was happening was no more interesting than finding a penny on the ground. My heart pounded harder to the rhythm of his disinterest. I ached and the knot in my stomach throbbed.

Everything about this was a shouldn’t, but it did.

I tried to be stone, too, to show him he meant nothing, that this was nothing, but I couldn’t.

A whimper escaped my lips, and then his eyes blazed like the joints we’d smoked clandestinely when we were teenagers. I could practically hear the snick of the matches.

What am I doing?

I don’t like this.

I do.

I like him watching me. I like his hungry, ravenous eyes.

I like how he pushes his shoulder harder into the frame with my breathing. I like his jaw tightening with the deepening of his brow, the darkening of his gaze.

I like being on display for him.

It’s wrong.

But it makes me feel so good.

He ran his thumb over his lip, nail digging into the flesh like he wanted to dig into me, and said low and casual: “Faster.”

I listened, sliding along myself with fervor. My breathing rose in cadence—I couldn’t stop it. I slid inside myself. One finger, two. Wet.

I’ve never been so wet and I know he can hear it.

It’s traitorous.

It’s not enough.

I know why, it’s because of him. I’m empty with the memory of Theo’s fingers only feet away, even if they were barely touching me.

If I were with anyone else, I’d put on a show.

With him, I’m quiet.

And God, that’s so much more betraying. Only the sound of my thighs rubbing against the sheets, magnified like thunder, my breathing gusts of wind. He said he wouldn’t need a show, and I can feel the truth of those words. He reads every hand movement, every rise and fall of my chest. I can’t hide from him. I can’t pretend.

He sees me.

Tags: Mary Catherine Gebhard Crowne Point Erotic
Source: readsnovelonline.net