I want to tell her not to bother. That she wouldn't like what she found if she spent more time with me. That I'm not worthy of whatever idealistic fantasy of me she's painting in her head. I want to tell her this.
I do.
I should.
I will.
But I also want to see if she can make herself come simply from rocking back and forth on my leg, or if she needs a little help.
I want to slip my hand into her cotton panties and see how wet she is. I want to know how hard her clit is. How eager and slick. I want to know if she enjoys teasing little circles made by the tip of a finger or the firm press of a thumb at just the right moment.
And God help me, I don't want her to stop looking at me like that.
She smiles and that perfect pink tongue darts out for another swipe of her lower lip. Then she bends her elbows enough to kiss me. I let her. I keep my hands on her thighs while she rocks against me again and as she presses gentle kisses against my lips. When she snakes a hand out from underneath my shirt to run her hand along the hard length of me, I let her.
I let her, when what I want to do is take control. What I want is to unzip my pants, fist myself, slide her panties to the side and slip inside of her hot, wet, tight cunt. But if I take the lead I can't watch her use me to get herself off. And that shit is hot as fuck. Hotter than is reasonable for someone my age. Or her age for that matter. Yet she's doing it for me right now with this PG-rated makeout session, so if she wants to play after-school special, I'm game. Besides, I'm far too curious to see where this goes.
Nine
LYDIA
I bend over Rhys and kiss him. He smells like man and leather. Or maybe the leather I'm smelling is the couch we're currently making out on, because I'm that girl now. The girl who makes out on couches in the back office at a bar. To be honest, I feel pretty good about this life development. Anyway, he smells good and he feels good and he looks, well, he looks really, really good.
And he's so nice. Like he hasn't even tried to get my shirt off yet, which I'd totally let him do if he wanted to, but I guess he's taking this slow. I wonder if I'm supposed to take off my own shirt? That can't be right. What if I just whipped my shirt off right now and he was like, Whoa, Lydia. I only like you a kissing amount, not a shirt-off amount?
That would be terrible. Like the worst ever.
He really likes me a kissing amount so I don't want to blow it. I move my fingers up to his neck and kiss him again. His hands are stroking the backs of my thighs, long smooth strokes from mid-thigh to my butt, but he stops there, his fingertips trailing along the edge of my underwear where it rests against my ass. Then he slides his hands back down. His palms feel huge on the backs of my legs, his skin warm against my skin, his fingers squeezing as he drags his hands up and down and all of it is making me crazy.
As in wet and horny and damn near out of my mind. I feel as though all the nerve endings in my body have moved to one spot and I just want to press myself against him to ease it. I'm aching with the need to be filled, to have him inside of me, so I'm making do with grinding myself against his leg. I wonder if I'm squeezing his thigh too hard?
I drop my lips to his neck and kiss him. He's got the hottest scruff ever and it abrades my cheek and the tip of my nose as I run my lips across his skin. I lick the side of his neck too, because I just have to taste him. He groans and uses one hand to pull me tighter against his leg and fists the other in my hair.
The hair-fisting almost makes me come. I'm so close. I drop my forehead to his neck and then he's whispering in my ear. I love the sound of his voice no matter what he's saying, but the low gruff whispers might be my undoing.
"Are you dirty, good girl?"
"Maybe," I reply with a shrug, because who knows really? But I think I might be dirty. If the hair-tugging is any indication, then yes. Firm yes. Sign me up for a one-way ticket to Dirtyville.
"Are you wet?"
Wait, did he really just ask that? What if I reply, "So wet, Rhys," and he has no idea what I'm talking about because what he really said was, "I'm bored, get off of me?" Logically one sounds nothing like the other but you never know, do you? Also I'm not accustomed to this kind of dirty talk. Once in college I was making out with a guy and he said he was gonna throw his dick up on my lips. That's an actual quote, I didn't misunderstand that one. I know this because I asked him to repeat himself. Which he did. Word for word. I don't know if that line had worked for him in the past but it was a no-go for me. Anyway, the point is, I have a limited skill set on the dirty talk and I don't want to blow this so I keep my head buried in his neck and rub my palms across his nipples while I wait to see how this plays out.
"I can feel you on my leg," he adds. His lips are at the soft spot behind my ear and his voice is gruff. His breath whispers against my neck and I shiver. Except—
Oh, my God. Am I making his pants wet? I'm going to die.
"Do you always get this wet, Lydia? You're soaking me right through your panties. Riding my leg like I'm your personal fucktoy. Using me to get yourself off." He tugs my hair so I have to lift my head and meet his gaze. "Aren't you?"
I'm going to melt. My breath is caught in my throat and I'm impossibly hotter and wetter and slightly humiliated and all I can think about is how damp my undies are against his leg and how freaking warm it feels there and how I need just a little something more. Just a nudge.
"Tell me, Lydia. Say it."
I can't. So I simply nod and avert my eyes as some odd sound comes out of my mouth that is half embarrassed squeak and half I-might-die-if-I-don't-get-to-come-soon groan.
"Do you know how hot you are? How insane you're driving me? How hard you're making me?"
"No." I shake my head, glancing back to meet his eyes once again. "I was hoping I was but I wasn't totally sure, you know?"
He looks at me, a hint of confusion crossing his face before he smiles as if I've amused him. I smile back because he's beautiful.
"You're a little tease, aren't you? You know exactly what you're doing to me."
Well, I can feel him pressing against my leg so I'm not totally oblivious. Also, I think this means he likes me more than a kissing amount so I grin in response.
"You love being filled with cock, don't you?" he asks but it's more of a statement than a question. My eyes flare and I can feel the blush covering my cheeks. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth for lack of anything to say to that.
"I bet you're tight as hell. You probably have to get this wet to take a dick, don't you? I bet you'd stretch so tight around my cock I'd have to fight not to come the moment I pushed inside of you."
Good God. No one has ever spoken to me like this. I sit up a bit and trail my fingers along the light path of hair from his belly button to the top of his jeans. Then I move my hand to the outline of his dick where it's trapped against his leg and stroke him. I want him inside of me. I feel… empty. There's no other way to explain it. I'm empty and aching to be filled with him.
He exhales on a groan when I touch him and it sounds like heaven. The low timber of sound, not even a word. His hands have moved to the tops of my legs now that I'm sitting up again. His thumbs are on the insides of my thighs, his palms on top, and he's repeating the stroking motion he was making on the backs of my legs. My skirt is bunched around my waist, allowing his hands to slide all the way up, his thumbs resting on the taut muscles of my inner thigh where I'm stretched across his own leg. His hands stop, his thumbs kneading my heated skin before brushing along the elastic seam of the crotch of my panties. I know the fabric between is wet. I can imagine how my damp curls look, the wet fabric clinging and transparent. Pale pink stripes. That's the pair I put on today when I got out of the shower after the pool. A pale pink pair of cotton high-legged briefs with thin white stripes. Anything other than plain white I'd always considered kinda sexy. I can't imagine it stacks up against the skimpy thongs made of lace and silk he must be used to seeing a woman wear.