Right (Wrong 2)

“My hair is done.”

“I’ll barely touch you.”

I lean back against the mirror, dubious. “Barely?”

“One-handed,” he replies, holding up his left, his right still planted on the counter next to my hip.

My robe is already gaping open and he slides the tip of his index finger from my belly button down to my clit. I gasp, and he knows he’s got me.

“Feet up, heels on the counter,” he instructs and I lift my knees, eager to comply. My eyelids are already heavy and I’m flushed with desire everywhere.

“Just the one hand?”

“A couple of fingers and a thumb.”

My breathing increases as he slides his finger lower, circling my opening.

“You really are wet,” he notes. He’s standing over me, arm braced on the counter, our bodies only touching at the spot where his finger is rimming me. His face is less than a foot from mine, but he doesn’t make any moves to kiss me or touch me in any other way. His finger slides in an inch and continues the rimming motion, the stretch satisfying. The contact is made more erotic somehow without him touching me in any other way. Our eyes are locked while he touches me so intimately.

He adds his thumb to my clit and I jerk. I feel his fingertip withdraw, then he’s brushing it across my clit, paving the way for his thumb to return, smoothing the wetness around in small circles.

My breasts are heaving and I want a rough hand on them so badly. But he’s resolved in his one-handed promise so I grab them myself. I’m not gentle, my hands cupped underneath, holding the weight of them, my fingers grappling at my flesh before pinching my nipples as hard as I can stand.

His thumb continues circling my clit as he drives two fingers into me, sliding deep. He tilts his wrist and drags his fingertips forward while pressing down on my clit with his thumb and I come, panting and incoherent. I grab his forearms with my hands, supporting myself as my toes bend over the edge of the counter and my back arches.

“Less than two minutes,” he boasts, sliding his fingers out and holding up his hand. I can see myself coating his fingers, my eyes trailing their path to his mouth, where he sucks them clean. “One-handed,” he adds, completely unnecessarily.

“Maybe I’m just a slut, you braggart,” I call out as he heads out of the bathroom. I grab the towel he tossed on the vanity earlier and clean myself up, my thighs a damp mess. “You just made it worse!” I yell as he crosses the bathroom threshold.

“I know,” he responds, tossing a grin over his shoulder.

I follow him to the walk-in closet. I’ve brought over half a dozen outfit options and they’re all hanging in Sawyer’s closet. He’s already got his pants on and is buttoning his shirt by the time I get there. I drop my robe on the floor and then dig through one of the built-in drawers in the closet.

“Something I can help you find?” he asks. Because to be fair, I’m digging through his drawer.

“Nope,” I tell him. “Found it.”

“Everly, what in the hell are you doing?” He’s finished buttoning his shirt and is staring at me, hands on hips, the corners of his eyes creased as he frowns.

“I’m putting on your underwear,” I tell him, stepping into a pair of his briefs. I was digging around for a black pair. Why the hell do they even sell them in white? Just, no.

“Why?” He still looks bewildered, but he’s stopped staring at me to tuck in his shirt.

“You got me all worked up and horny in there.” I point a thumb in the direction of the bathroom.

“I gave you an orgasm.” He seems confused by my accusation.