Out of Hand

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

This is getting out of hand.

I know it is, because even I am beginning to notice.

And, fuck, it feels so good.

I feel your presence, tangibly, in any room, like an invisible string that tugs, no matter how far you are from me.

You walk by me and I can’t help but look up — my breath catches when I see you smile, and if I look into your eyes it’s hard to swallow.

My eyes linger a second too long on the crop of short hair peeking right above where you left your shirt unbuttoned one hole too deep to be formal, and I wonder if it was long enough for you to notice.

I feel a tension, under my skin, I feel my eyes opening too wide, the tingle in my toes that makes it hard to meet eyes these days. I know I am avoiding talking alone with you because of how hard it becomes to breathe.

***

I walk out to get some air, and just as I turn, I almost bump into someone, mumbling a distracted apology as I look up and — you. I meet your eyes, and my breath is stuck in my chest and every nerve in my body is singing, and I have to stop a gasp that almost comes out. So brief, just a moment, so close — you pause, smile and walk on — but in that moment the whole world vanished, and I all I could see was you crowding me against the wall, arms on either side of my head, your eyes hungry and wanting and on me, and your body so so close but not touching — an almost — and I couldn’t breathe. My brain feels hazy and my lungs fill up with lead, knees shivering. I blink and let go of the breath I didn’t know I was holding, and decide on a detour to the washroom, trying to will my legs to work.

Cursing myself, stupid, stupid, stupid, I take in a few deep breaths, closing my eyes. I am slammed with the image of wet grey hair, and dark, searching eyes, holding me in place, a wall behind me, cool and steady, and bare forearms caging me, with dark blue sleeves rolled up halfway. With those eyes, I could not even have moved a muscle. I didn’t think I could exhale without it coming out as a whimper. A shiver trails down my body, triggered by a vividly imagined breath on my hairline, tracing down my front and settling down there. And holy fuck why are my nipples erect in the middle of the day!

Not daring to close my eyes again, I splash my face with cold water. Fuck. Not now, not here. I will my heart to slow down, even as blood rushes to my cheeks and my knees wobble. Fuck, I mutter to myself. I’m totally fucked and I know it.

* * *

Its Saturday and I am hungover, and traveling. It was Lisa’s idea to go out because it’s ladies’ night, bar hopping, getting bahis firmaları drunk and dancing our asses off. With a bunch of college girls, because I’m so old now. And then she convinced me to stay at the hostel, because that’s where the joints were. Ugh. Why did I agree. There’s a reason I have an apartment, and hostel rooms are uncomfortable.

I walk to the train station and why the fuck is the sun so bright? I am tired and sore and want nothing but a long bath and a good sleep.

I mentally check the inventory of food that can be consumed with minimal effort in cooking with ingredients available in my cupboards, staring at useless Instagram posts on my phone when suddenly there is a very familiar forearm (accompanied by hand) waving in front of my face. I look up and move to detach my earphones and oh my fucking god am greeted with the sight of a 2000-watt smile and bright, curious eyes. Seriously, this is brighter than the sun I had to walk in, but oh my god, you look like a dream. Slowly, my senses wake up and I am hit with — oh. Black. B-black. And my brain feels like a broken record. Casually untucked, and oh my god 3 buttons down, are you trying to kill me and looking like this should be illegal, and why are you out in public looking like this and my jaw was on the floor now.

You offer to accompany me homewards, and fuck me, so I went with it. Fucking stupid idea, smartass, a voice inside that sounded an awful lot like sanity said. After your fantasies this week, you think you can control your eyes? ‘Pftt’, I thought, indignant, and since it was confirmed it was, in fact sanity, I obviously ignored it.

We’re standing in the train, and it’s so close I can smell that musky scent of sweat and you and I don’t understand how it can be so heady and perfect and how it’s turning my brain into mush. Fuck, fucking fuck, and that chest is right there and I want to just bury my nose in that soft hair and breathe you in and take that scent in a bottle and keep it in my closet, and oh fuck, thank goodness you are checking your phone because I just caught myself leaning forward and oh god, no.

Hangover forgotten with the sight of messy grey hair, my pupils are already blown, and I hope you don’t notice the shiver as you look at me and smile. This was a fucking bad idea, whatever is left of my sanity chides, as we walk side by side. I can feel your arms as they move the air beside mine and an accidental touch sends a thrill up my spine. I invite you home, and I’m strung so tight, but you refuse in your usual polite manner, and I breathe my relief. I don’t think I could handle kaçak iddaa that.

Home comes way too late, and the moment I close the door to my sole sanctuary, I find my breath again. I throw myself on the bed and sigh, deeply. My brain feels fuzzy and my nerves are haywire, but something else is settled at the bottom of my gut.

I lie back and let my head hit the pillow, and feel the ache of desire in my belly. It feels too tight and too urgent and overpowering and smells like you.

I strip, getting out of my jeans and panties, and find that I am wet, not just, but dripping down to my jeans. Unbuttoning my shirt halfway, I rub my fingers over the gooseflesh on my chest. I reach back to unhook my bra and pull it off along with the shirt.

Dropping my clothes on the floor, I turn on the shower. The water is scalding, and it feels perfect as it hits my already tingling skin, prickling just the right amount.

I move slightly and moan as the streams of water hit just the tips of my nipples, already sensitive from my surprise encounter this morning. The memory of ghost touches on the back of my hand raise the hair on the back of my neck, and I close my eyes and face the water. Desperate and wanting, I give in to my horrible mind, and I’m taken back to the white wall. Your eyes pin me, naked, against a cold, steady wall as I squirm under your stare. You are close enough to touch, but far enough that you’re not touching, and its torture, the feeling of heat radiating from the arms on either side of me. If I moved an inch forward, would I feel your erection against my bare body? If I close my eyes harder, would you lean in and take me?

I run my hand down my neck, slowly, gasping as I reach the skin above my breast.

Your eyes are pure lust, pupils blown, and you lean forward and breathe out my name in a hoarse whisper. It’s too much, too much pleasure, too much torture and I squirm, desperate for a touch, a release.

Using one finger I softly trace the outline of one nipple, hardened by jet streams, and pinch. Eyes closed and unraveling a fantasy, I am lost in my own head. A low moan escapes me, and I hope them neighbors won’t hear me.

Slowly, you move your arms, down each side of my body, close enough to feel but far enough that I yearn for the pressure of touch, and I am panting, your eyes never leave mine.

My knees tremble and I reach for the other nipple with my other hand, rolling and pinching and gasping for some release behind closed eyes.

You grab my wrists, away from my body and pin them above my head with one hand, leaning closer. My kaçak bahis eyes watch the rippling muscles in your broad shoulders — and when did you lose the shirt? I can smell the musk on your breath, and my senses are flooded with the smell that is just you. One finger traces along my jawline, and I struggle not to whimper.

I am alight like a Christmas tree, every nerve on edge, and I move my hand lower, past the wiry hair down to my folds, and pant as I pull them apart to touch my swollen nub. My hand slides easily, though I am not sure if I should credit the shower or you. I lean against the bathroom wall, legs no longer supporting, sweating not from the heat of the water but behind closed eyes.

Soft lips explore my clavicle, and your hair tickles my neck. I absently wonder what it would feel like to touch, your wet, spiky hair and your two-day stubble. My whole body is flushed with arousal and screaming for contact, but all I get is one hand holding my wrists together and hot breath against my neck. And it feels perfect even if it is imaginary, too good, and please don’t stop, please never stop, and yesyesyes.

I rub my finger in circles, a rhythm, too slow and not enough pressure and aaahh (that was loud). The wall is cool against my back and the water beating down on me is searing, almost as hot as my arousal. With my other hand I reach a finger behind and inside, and ohmygodyes.

Yes.. a trembling whisper as my head thumps against the wall because there’s teeth on my neck and a tongue laving at the bite, and its ohgoddon’tstopeverplease. My breath comes in stutters and the only sound I can make is ‘ngh’ as that torturous mouth moves further down, littering bites across my bare chest.

I am leaning, moving, fighting against my own hands, rubbing and reaching and now there’s two fingers inside me, I hear the squelch of water and wetness, it’s so close — so close — and I’ve lost all rhythm, edging to the release that is just out of reach, and —

Your teeth catch a nipple and bite and —

My fingers are frantic, pressing and reaching, deeper and harder and —

Every muscle in my body clenches, hard, taut like a string. There’s a shriek, coming from somewhere far away or close to me, and there are stars behind my eyes, no air in my lungs, and a set of satisfied dark eyes holding my arms against a wall and I’m slumped, slipping down, or water is slipping down me, I’m not sure anymore..

I wake on the bathroom floor with hot water falling on me. I get up on uncertain knees and dry myself. There’s a wetness on my neck that feels unrelated with the shower and a ghost of fingers on my wrists.. an image of sinful eyes and a one-sided smile slams unbidden into my head, and there’s a cackling laughter that points at me.

I’m thoroughly fucked.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32