Page 20 of My Ex-Military Biker

Shirtless, pants shoved down his hips, his hand wrapped around his cock.

Every thought in my head stops.

He's stroking himself. Hard, fast pulls. His other hand gripping the back of the couch like he needs an anchor.

His head is back, jaw clenched, and the sound he makes is desperate.

Heat floods my body so fast I feel dizzy.

Between my legs, instant wetness. Soaking. Just from watching him for five seconds.

I make a sound. Can't help it. Breath catching or movement or something.

And his eyes snap open, looking directly at me standing in the hallway.

His hand doesn't stop. Just keeps moving. Keeps stroking.

Three seconds of silence.

Then his voice cuts through the dark. Rough and commanding and not asking.

"Don't stand there unless you're ready to do more than watch."

The words make something clench hard between my legs.

I can't stop staring. At his hand. At his cock. At the way the head appears and disappears into his fist slick.

"You been lying in my bed thinking about this?" His voice is rough. Strained. "About my cock inside you?"

I nod. Still can't speak.

"Say it."

"Yes."

"You touch yourself?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because when I do I want it to be your hands."

He makes a sound low in his throat. His hand speeds up. "Strip. Now."

My hands move automatically, pulling the shirt over my head and letting it drop.

His hand stops moving just for a second, his eyes drag down my body like a physical touch.

Through my breasts, stomach, hips, and between my legs where I can feel how wet I am.

"Fuck me," he breathes. "Get over here."

I move to the arm of the couch opposite him and sit close enough to see everything. To smell sweat and want.

"Touch yourself. Show me what you wanted to do in that bed."

My hand slides up my body to my breast, and the weight of it fills my palm immediately. My nipple is already peaked, a hard point against my skin. I roll it between my fingers, then pinch.