Gold Weaver | ✓

vierzehn

VIERZEHN

I watched him from the bed as he made light work of manipulating the trumpet. As I looked at it now, I realised how small it looked— like it was one for a child rather than a full sized one. It seemed all the more smaller in his large hands as he ran them over it, it glowing as he moulded.

How did he make it look so hot?

My wind wandered to dangerous places. Like his hands moving that way on me. I wanted those expert movements to be made all over my body, squeezing and kneading everywhere that I needed him. I bit my lip.

"You need to stop looking at me like that," he suddenly said, ending the pulsing silence. His voice sent shivers all over before seeking refuge directly in my core. "Or I'm not going to get this finished."

I felt like playing with him tonight... in more ways than one. "I don't know what you mean," I said, innocently, even if my nipples were hard enough to cut glass at this point.

I felt like such a perve. Who got so turned on from watching someone's hands? Did I have a secret fetish I didn't know about?

But it wasn't just his hands. It was the way he looked, concentrated and intense. He took care with each movement, taking his time as he made sure it was all even and pristine. I realised with a jolt that that's the way he'd watched me when... well, you know. And the imagery that memory inflicted had me clenching my thighs together, desperate to relieve the throb.

His eyes flickered up to mine, unhumorous. "You know what."

He was sitting on that chair again, seeming to drown it with his large stature. I went over, keeping my eyes on his the entire way, until I was in front of him. He tilted his head like a dog, wondering what I was doing. Me too mate. Me too.

"Do I?" I asked, holding his shoulders for balance as I straddled his thighs. I felt his already semi-erection stir beneath my rear.

He sighed. "I think you know exactly what," he said, keeping working on the trumpet. My eyes watched him work again, zoning in on his hands.

I repeated myself. "Do I?"

He groaned slightly as I shifted on his lap, his growing erection pressing on my clothed heat. His eyes met mine again and I watched, almost in awe, as the gold seemed to darken to a bronze in lust. I wondered if my own grey eyes had done much the same, a storm churning in them as everything in me begged to be as close as possible him. A burn building in me that only he could relieve.

Again, he sighed, putting the petite trumpet over onto the beside table as he did. His hands came to rest on my thighs, heating the exposed skin there where my dress had ridden up, before venturing further to my hips. He grasped them firmly.

I moaned as he suddenly pushed his groin up into me. "Yes," he said, face tightened to hold in his own sound of pleasure. "And I'm not giving it to you—" He motioned with his chin to his tenting trousers. "— until you admit it."

"To admit it," I said on a breath, broken and almost painful to get out as his fingers drifted up beneath the skirt of my dress. "I would have to know what you m-mean." I only just managed to finish the sentence as his expert fingers drifted to my core, languidly stroking it.