Page 39 of A Bossy Roommate
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you wearing anything underneath?”
I’m taken aback by his question, but can’t deny the thrill it sends through me. His soft rumble is both exhilarating and disorienting. “I’m…not,” I say truthfully.
Truth is, my nipples hurt. They hurt from being naked and rubbing hard against the cloth of the robe. They had peaked into an impossible state the moment he had reached up to grab the shelf, his broad tattooed chest hovering in front of me and his manly scent dizzying my senses.
“You’re completely naked under that robe?” His head drops, and his jaw and his stubble graze softly at my shoulder, causing the robe to slightly open, enough for the cloth to rub against my tingly nipples, but not enough for them to peek out.
More wetness is pooling between my legs—which is so inexplicable.
Watching him with my nipples that are pulling toward him makes me wonder how someone’s eyelashes can be so dark and captivating.
He tilts his head back up, causing his shoulders and back to move, and his hips to push slightly forward. It’s an unconscious little move, but it has the biggest impact. He has no idea what has just happened—the robe I’m wearing is thick and the room is dark after all—but because of my sitting position and my parted legs, by this small adjustment, his cock has come almost in direct contact with my naked clit. He is maddingly hard under his gray boxers. The accidental stimulation takes me by completesurprise. Not only do I gasp, but I shift out of reflex, and so does he, but all that does is cause my legs to open a bit farther. Now, my pussy lips are basically clutching his shaft, and his tip is in an evenbetterposition, right at the very center of my clit (“jackpot” position).
His perfect eyes connect with mine, full of brilliance and beautiful stars. “You like this, do you?”
That’s when the waterwhooshingstops.
That’s when the machine starts its rhythmic washing cycle.
That’s when my hips start to pulse against his cock, and my sensitive clit against his thick tip.
Another moan leaves my lips just as a groan escapes his.
“Fuck,” he lets out as the cycle continues.
His eyes drop down, and his facial expression tenses, but his hips remain almost perfectly still, his arms still up and on either side of me, but now clutching the shelf firmer. My hands squeeze the cupcakes almost as intensely as my pussy lips are squeezing the head of his shaft.
I definitely have no idea what to do now. Firstly, I’m locked in. Secondly, still locked in. Thirdly, and believe it or not, still very much locked in.
And…my brain doesn’t see any problem with that.
With the rumble of the machine, my clit is continuing to pulse against his tip, and with that, I’m losing all brain power.
All I can manage is to sit there, utterly powerless, absorbing the unfolding events, acutely aware of my complete loss of control and oh, dear, no, not now,pleasenot this—an orgasm starting to form. A substantial one. A desperate one. One that promises to outlast any I have ever experienced.
In fact, somehow, I instinctively know that if I or an outside occurrence doesn’t put an immediate end to this—maybe a power outage—I will come in exactly ten more cycling-rumbles.
Nine.
Oh, no.
Eight.
“Cart…” is all that escapes my lips, stopping mid-word when his lips graze my neck, kissing my skin, opening my robe farther.
Seven.
More grumbles escape his throat and continue to drive me insane.
Six.
He is just as turned on as I am. Another growl, this one with more tension, while the irremissible tip stimulation against my clit continues.
The washing machine and my hips are doing all the work, cycling against me, and all I can think of is how badly I want to come.
Five.