Page 46 of Alaska Lights

Don’t even think about it.

“Too late,” I whisper to my subconscious.

I ease closer to the dirty clothes hamper, my cock plumping to fully erect with every inch I erase to our target. Precome beads at my slit, threatening to drip onto the floor until I rub my thumb back and forth over the slit.

My entire body trembles from the pleasure, rippling like waves at sea.

I stand in front of the wicker hamper, staring down at Alaska’s dirty clothes. A black shirt lies on top, crinkled. This is a recent shirt. One that he has worn in the last day.

“Don’t do it,” I whisper to myself; my breath is shaking, my throat dry.

I continue to shake as I dip my hand into the hamper, fisting the material between my fingers. My body practically bends with arousal, my hips thrusting forward, wishing his body was the one I was rubbing against.

Stumbling backwards, my shoulders hit the edge of the wall that creates a border between the vanity and the shower.

“Too fucking late.” I practically salivate when I shove the bundled-up shirt in my face.

I groan, pushing my nose into the day-old material. “Oh my god,” I moan, wrapping a hand around my erect, straining cock.

My thighs tremble as if the tectonic plates beneath the ground are grabbing hold of me themselves.

One long, slow stroke and the most embarrassing high-pitched whimper swims up my throat, traveling between the walls. I open my mouth, inhaling his scent so much, his flavor bursts across my tongue.

It’s as if my senses are on overdrive. I can smell him. I can smell what makes him, him. Earthy. Woodsy. Drops of rain. Smoke. Fire. And something else. Something heavy like…like…I inhale again, moaning so loud I’m worried the entire house can hear me.

Pain.

I don’t know why I can smell it. I never thought pain had a scent. But here I am, standing in the bathroom of a man I barely know, smelling his shirt as if my life depends on it. My cock leaking precome into my hand, and the heavy undertone of his pain stings my eyes.

It isn’t enough for me to stop because I’m starting to think Alaska is making me lose my fucking mind.

If this is what it is like to get lost, I don’t ever want to be found.

I push his shirt into my mouth, biting down on the material, getting it damp with saliva. I suck my own spit from the simple black tee, needing his flavor to spread across my tongue.

I’ve never felt so needy before, so desperate, so lost in someone else that I feel like I’ll die if I don’t get to taste him.

“Fuck. Oh my god. Alaska,” I groan his name, slamming the back of my head against the wall as I stroke myself faster.

I’m drenched.

Precome spills from my cock so much, I’m able to use it as lube. My shaft shines from how slick I am. I rip the shirt away from my face, staring down at the blushed tip sawing in and out of my fist.

My vivid imagination pictures Alaska on his knees in front of me, and my knees nearly buckle from the beautiful fiction. Picturing a big, towering man like Alaska kneeling for me has my orgasm looming closer.

“I want you to suck my cock. You’re driving me insane,” I groan through clenched teeth, speaking to the ghost of him.

Those lips.

Full and pink. So pouty. They look so soft, and I need to know if they are as silky as I am imagining them to be.

My fingers twitch to run through his shoulder-length hair and grip it while he sucks me down his throat.

“Why does my entire body burn?” I run one hand down my torso, the steam from the shower entering my lungs on the next inhale.

It’s warm and would be soothing if I wasn’t wishing for Alaska’s giant palms to skim up my body. My touch isn’t enough. I long for his hands on me. I know the moment I experience it—if I experience it—I’ll want more.

How do I get more from him?