𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈

• 27 •

Keenan's voice rang in the air, slightly echoing in the confined space of my bathroom. Bend over, he said, so bend over I did. Placing my elbows and forearms on the counter before me, I leaned over the sink. Try as I did, I was unable to pry my eyes off of the mirror. My focus flitted to myself: flustered, blue eyes looking like dark gray, and lips parted to draw in limited breath. Then I looked at Keenan sporting a look similar to mine though more composed. Of course he'd be composed. He's Keenan.

The man shifted his feet against mine, prying them further away from each other. Hands trailed from the sides of my legs up to my hips and to my behind, lingering and wandering as if my skin were a new destination. I watched him in the mirror, a thought popping into my half-baffled mind: What the fuck is up with Keenan and mirrors? Is this some sort of kink I haven't heard about before? I shook my head, deciding not to comment and disturb the trance-like level of arousal we'd achieve in my bathroom—my bathroom, of all damn places.

Keenan was looking down, one hand fumbling with his belt as the other kept its grip on my behind. I heard the sound of the leather strap slide out of the metal buckle followed by a zipper being tugged down. The lack of protection only then dawned upon me. Like our minds were synced, our eyes met in the mirror, his brown ones sending a quiet question between us. It seems that the word pregnancy flew out of my mental dictionary because, after a beat, I nodded.

The thin fabric that did a shitty job at covering my behind was slid to the side. The air kissed the wet skin between my legs. The sensation was overtaken by the feel of skin—Keenan's against mine. The pads of three fingers rubbed my own wetness all over me. After another second, I felt him at my entrance and there wasn't anything I wanted more in the world but to feel him inside. A primal craving had gotten a hold of every curve, line, and crease of my body. Every cell in my frame was rattling in anticipation for a physical bond that's both so sacred and so sinful at the same time. I came to realize that around Keenan, specifically the times before we engage in whatever 'messing around' as he calls it, my desperation is similar to that you'd feel in a life-or-death situation. I am falling and I need to grip the goddamn rope and hug it for dear salvation.

Everything that came from his lips sounded like a prayer before fatality closed in, "Look at me."

Again I felt the rational urge to cover my face, but his previous comments rang through my head: I don't need to look good. Not around him, anyway. I looked at Keenan in the mirror, falling deeper and deeper into his hypnotic spell. Then came the feeling of my sex being stretched, slow but gratifying. My lungs sucked in a breath, the mirror fogging lightly when I exhaled. My back arched and my head tilted up, all the while holding his gaze that faltered when I reached his base. A lone word slipped out of the man's mouth, one that did not belong to prayers, contrary to my previous comparison: "Fuck."

A shudder passed through from my neck. He did not move just yet. Keenan kept still inside of me, reveling the raw pleasure that oozed from where our bodies affixed. He tested the waters, pulling out just a little bit before burying himself back in. As expected, he felt more than a hundred times better than when a thin barrier of plastic was present.

He denied us the pleasure of movement, pissing me off. Teasing me further and provoking my patience, his hands explored my back; a hand trailing from my shoulder down to the inward curve. With a toe dipped into courage, I called him out Keenan-style, "Are you gonna fuck me, or are you just gonna stand there like a dumbass?"