muscles that seem to tremble at my every touch.
I move my hands a little inward, and my gaze fixes on the bulge in the front of his pants. I hear him hiss as I get close enough to tease him, but not close enough to give him any relief.
I know this is going to be a turning point. For some reason, in my head, all of this is okay. It's just a little bit of experimentation. But when I touch him in a more intimate way, it means something else. It means I'm committing to this. That I actually want to be with him. To please him and have him please me.
Fuck it. I can't take it anymore, and I'm dying to know what he feels like. Even through his pants.
I expect it to be like cupping myself, and it mostly is. He's warm against my hand, and I can feel the outline of his shaft through the fabric. He's already rock hard, and my pulse quickens as I realize that's all because of me.
But the biggest difference between touching him and touching myself is that I get to enjoy his reactions. One of his hands goes to his forehead, and he looks up at the ceiling, muttering something under his breath. It sounds like a plea, and as I rub him through his jeans, I watch his every reaction. His lips part, his hips arch off the bed a little, and his chest starts to rise and fall rapidly as his breathing becomes more ragged.
"You're kinda killing me over here," he says, and his voice is raspy, playing on my already excited nerves.
"You want to even the score?"
I want to keep touching him, but I have a strong need to slide my hands under his shirt, and I know if I do that, it's not going to be long before his clothes come off. It's not really a bad thing, but since I've set this arbitrary goal for myself, I want to stick to it.
Of course, Griff doesn't know about this goal, and he can do whatever he damn well pleases. When he motions for me to lie back beside him, I do it, looking over at him as anticipation tangles within me. I'm already so wound up that, as soon as he touches me, I can feel my dick throb in my shorts.
That's when I realize he doesn't even have to get me out of my clothes to be able to reach more of my skin. My shirt sleeves are short, and he has full access to my arms. He takes advantage of it, tracing the definition there in an almost reverent way.
He does the same thing with my chest, and down to my abs. Then he dips his hand underneath the hem of my shirt, and smooths it up over the front of my body.
He rubs in slow circles, and my breath hitches as he gets close to one of my nipples. Even just the slightest touch from him makes me let out a moan that doesn't sound like me. I arch into him, and let my head fall back against the bed.
"You like that?"
He does it some more, the soft pads of his fingers running over the flats of my nipples. They stand stiff and taut, pressing hard against my shirt, and with every pass he makes, the tension in me winds tighter and tighter.
I should have told him the rules, but I can't say I mind that he's indulging a little. When he draws away from my chest, it takes everything in me to hold back the most pathetic whimper ever. But he quickly makes up for it, running both of his large hands down my thighs, and coming up underneath the hem of my shorts.
I'm wearing boxer briefs underneath, thank God, because I don't think I could take the feeling of him touching my inner thigh, skin to skin. Even this is almost too much, and my dick starts to beg for attention. When I look down at Griff, he's looking right back at me, his eyes blazing with need.
I don't know who leans in first, but our lips meet in a searing kiss. I crush my mouth to his, moaning against him as he gets closer and closer to where I want him.
Finally, he rubs me through my briefs, and I almost come right then and there.
"Fuck," I hiss against his mouth.
He keeps his lips less than an inch from mine, and I can feel his hot breath against me as he focuses on what he's doing. The movements of his hand are slow torture, and he
I move my hands a little inward, and my gaze fixes on the bulge in the front of his pants. I hear him hiss as I get close enough to tease him, but not close enough to give him any relief.
I know this is going to be a turning point. For some reason, in my head, all of this is okay. It's just a little bit of experimentation. But when I touch him in a more intimate way, it means something else. It means I'm committing to this. That I actually want to be with him. To please him and have him please me.
Fuck it. I can't take it anymore, and I'm dying to know what he feels like. Even through his pants.
I expect it to be like cupping myself, and it mostly is. He's warm against my hand, and I can feel the outline of his shaft through the fabric. He's already rock hard, and my pulse quickens as I realize that's all because of me.
But the biggest difference between touching him and touching myself is that I get to enjoy his reactions. One of his hands goes to his forehead, and he looks up at the ceiling, muttering something under his breath. It sounds like a plea, and as I rub him through his jeans, I watch his every reaction. His lips part, his hips arch off the bed a little, and his chest starts to rise and fall rapidly as his breathing becomes more ragged.
"You're kinda killing me over here," he says, and his voice is raspy, playing on my already excited nerves.
"You want to even the score?"
I want to keep touching him, but I have a strong need to slide my hands under his shirt, and I know if I do that, it's not going to be long before his clothes come off. It's not really a bad thing, but since I've set this arbitrary goal for myself, I want to stick to it.
Of course, Griff doesn't know about this goal, and he can do whatever he damn well pleases. When he motions for me to lie back beside him, I do it, looking over at him as anticipation tangles within me. I'm already so wound up that, as soon as he touches me, I can feel my dick throb in my shorts.
That's when I realize he doesn't even have to get me out of my clothes to be able to reach more of my skin. My shirt sleeves are short, and he has full access to my arms. He takes advantage of it, tracing the definition there in an almost reverent way.
He does the same thing with my chest, and down to my abs. Then he dips his hand underneath the hem of my shirt, and smooths it up over the front of my body.
He rubs in slow circles, and my breath hitches as he gets close to one of my nipples. Even just the slightest touch from him makes me let out a moan that doesn't sound like me. I arch into him, and let my head fall back against the bed.
"You like that?"
He does it some more, the soft pads of his fingers running over the flats of my nipples. They stand stiff and taut, pressing hard against my shirt, and with every pass he makes, the tension in me winds tighter and tighter.
I should have told him the rules, but I can't say I mind that he's indulging a little. When he draws away from my chest, it takes everything in me to hold back the most pathetic whimper ever. But he quickly makes up for it, running both of his large hands down my thighs, and coming up underneath the hem of my shorts.
I'm wearing boxer briefs underneath, thank God, because I don't think I could take the feeling of him touching my inner thigh, skin to skin. Even this is almost too much, and my dick starts to beg for attention. When I look down at Griff, he's looking right back at me, his eyes blazing with need.
I don't know who leans in first, but our lips meet in a searing kiss. I crush my mouth to his, moaning against him as he gets closer and closer to where I want him.
Finally, he rubs me through my briefs, and I almost come right then and there.
"Fuck," I hiss against his mouth.
He keeps his lips less than an inch from mine, and I can feel his hot breath against me as he focuses on what he's doing. The movements of his hand are slow torture, and he
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