Intrusion by Charlotte Stein Page B

I’ve never been able to before:
    I come, without a single stroke over my clit.

Chapter Seven
    H E GETS MORE daring after that. Not by much at first, but enough to make everything just that little bit more electric. His hand might brush my ass when we kiss, and he has absolutely no problem telling me to touch myself when I get to that overheated point. I even suspect he’s starting to like it. That this is a nice, safe space for him to have some kind of sexual experience. He drives me to the brink of insanity. . .
    And then I just take the edge off, while he watches.
    Because he does watch now. I can tell that his eyes are open for himself, as much as they are for me. The idea of someone looking at me as I do the lewdest thing possible is starting to excite me, and the more it excites me the better he seems to enjoy it. He makes comments without prompting, and sometimes his voice doesn’t seem so detached.
    Or is that just my imagination? Mostly I think it must be—I’m in no fit state to judge by the time he starts talking. Sometimes, I feel like my skin is about to burn off my body. My face gets so red and so flushed I could almost call the cause embarrassment.
    If it didn’t feel so good at the same time.
    Everything feels good with him. Even his most innocuous offers make me shiver—like the offer to let me lean against him while I stroke my clit. “Just lie back,” he says, and I do. “Just let yourself relax,” he says, and I do that, too.
    â€œTake your panties down,” he says.
    Though he really doesn’t have to. The moment the words are out they practically melt right off me. I freeze in the middle of what I’m doing—just sort of barely stroking underneath the material, primed from a kiss that had a lot of tongue and a ton of moaning in among it—and try to think. I need to get my mind in order, because seriously. Did he just say that?
    Of course, I can tell he likes to direct me a little. But usually the direction is aimed at making it better for me. It skirts the edge of whatever he might want, never quite crossing that line. Most of the time, it seems like he never wants anything at all—but this, this, this. It means he wants to see, right?
    He knows I kind of like to be covered up, to hide myself just a little—even from my own eyes. But somehow he seems to be asking anyway.
    So what should I think here?
    Apart from, oh my God, that is the hottest thing anyone has ever said to me ?
    And then he goes and says it again .
    â€œTake them down,” he says. “And open your legs a little.”
    I swear, I come so close to looking at him. The urge is enormous—I would kill to see the look on his face right now. But I fear that any slight movement might break this spell, and I don’t want it to. I don’t care why he wants me to do this. No long-held streak of shame is standing in my way. How could it possibly when he asks for so little and gives so much?
    When I feel so safe, lying here in his arms?
    Not to mention how arousing it is to ease those little cotton things down over my thighs. Suddenly I’m seventeen again, trembling and terrified, standing on the brink of something I’m sure will be so amazing. That newfound thrill is back, and it makes my breath hitch. I fumble with the elastic and shake at the thought, and when I’m done my legs don’t really want to part.
    But I part them anyway.
    And I look, even though I’ve never looked before. I see how wet I am and how swollen, my clit like a taut little bead between soft, flushed folds. Nothing horrible about it, or shameful in any way—on the contrary. The sight makes me shiver, and I get this good hot bloom in my lower belly, and when he strokes the back of his hand over my cheek, I do something I would never have dared to before.
    I kiss his fingers. I lick his fingers—which seems like way too much for me. As soon as I realize what