His actions cause a cascade in my own body. I get slippery and wet, hips rising into my own movements, setting a rhythm. Watching him watch me, watching him handle himself with such defined expertise, just makes me wish I could have said yes. His desire is exposed in every part of him, the darkening of his eyes, the tensing of his jaw, the sharp line in the muscle of his forearm. Heat blooms across my skin and I finally lift my hips, lowering my pants over my knees. When I part my legs and touch myself again—over my panties—Sebastian groans in approval.
“Christ, I want to—” He seems to bite back the rest, jaw clenching. I watch as he rolls his thumb over the tip of his dick, alternating strokes of hard and soft. I can see the sticky fluid at the top. I lick my lips and mimic his motions, rolling my clit with my thumb, applying pressure, then letting up. A rhythm forms between us, bolstered by the sound of our heavy breathing, the noises building in our chests.
“Touch your tits,” he demands. I have no idea where he gets off telling me what to do, but I do it anyway, spurred on by the tightening in my belly. I massage one breast, then the other, causing a sensation that jolts straight between my legs. He falls back on his elbow and flicks his nipple between his fingers, shuddering in response. “Jesus.”
I’ve been thinking maybe it couldn’t happen—me getting off in front of someone like this. But the orgasm builds in my belly, a coil tightened with every flick, rub, and stroke. Sebastian’s jaw tightens and his abdomen tenses as his motions grow more erratic. I can’t take my eyes off of him; his face, his body, the way his muscles flex the closer he gets.
Fuck, he’s got a nice body.
“I want to see it,” he says through gritted teeth. “I want to see you come, Sugar, let go. Let me see you just fucking let go.”
My body has never cooperated with my desires. If anything, we’re in a constant battle. But there’s something about Sebastian’s tone—his demand—that I physically react to. The orgasm spreads through me in waves of warm pleasure that drag me under, hazy, sweaty, overcome. I sink my teeth into my lip to bite down my whimpers as it shakes through me.
True to his word, that is all Bass wanted to see. He comes quickly, violently, seizing on his cock in a final gripping tug. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters, ropes of white, sticky fluid, dripping down his fist and pooling on his taut stomach. I lean back against the couch, the feeling slowly returning to my limbs, and then we both sit there, panting.
He mutters a low, “Good shit,” head still thrown back, eyes closed, body limp.
I take the opportunity to pull up my pants and root around for my shirt, having to stand and walk a few steps to bend down and collect it. It’s cold in here now, or maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s just this frenetic, chilling feeling returning to the pit of my chest, making me shiver and shake.
When I turn around, Sebastian’s watching me, a strange look on his face. He immediately looks away, removing his shorts and using them to wipe away the spunk.
“Is this the part where you bolt?” he asks, and there’s a fuckton of things happening in my head right now, but mostly I’m just staring at him as he stands, stark-ass naked, completely unashamed.
I sputter out an unnecessarily hostile, “What?” and he sighs, tossing his boxers aside.
“Nothing. Just wait here a second.” He disappears through a door and I shift from foot to foot, thinking about how much I don’t want to bolt.
I mostly just want to feel his bare chest against mine again.
When he returns, he’s dressed in a pair of sweats and a thick, comfortable-looking pullover. He shows me a pack of cigarettes and jerks his chin toward another door. “There’s a window in the bathroom.”
That’s how we end up sitting on the counter on either side of his sink, a squeaky exhaust fan to our front and the sound of chilly January wind to our backs.
He lights a cigarette and passes it to me, watching as I reluctantly take it, careful not to touch his fingers. “Looked like you needed it,” he explains.
I don’t know what the hell that means, but I suck in a drag anyway, letting it burn my chest. His eyes look about as tired as I feel, but he seems more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. Loose. Unguarded. Apparently, the post-orgasm version of Sebastian is something to behold.
“Can I ask you something?” he says, watching the stream of smoke as I aim it out the window.
I tuck my knees closer to my chest. “Depends.”
“On?”
“Can I ask you something?”
He looks surprised that I’d want to. “I’m an open book. Shoot.”
So I do. “Why aren’t you with Georgia?”
He lets out this soft, quiet laugh. “Not my type.”
“You’re friends, so you like each other,” I argue. “You’ve already hooked up with her, so you’re obviously attracted. You’re protective of her. You buy her gifts.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Jealous?”
For some reason it makes me angry, and I’m starting to suspect a part of that is that it does. “Maybe I don’t want to get into something that’s going to end in some CW love triangle bullshit. I like Georgia. She’s the closest thing I’ve had to a friend since middle school. So if there’s anything there, then I want out now.”
He plucks the cigarette from my fingers before I can bring it to my mouth, lifting it to his own. “Georgia is nice, and pretty, and yeah, she’s my friend. I’ve got her back. Not because we fooled around or because I’m into her, but just because that’s what I do for friends. I do the same for V or Caroline. Part of having Georgia’s back is knowing that we aren’t long-term material and not ruining a good friendship over something that’s just,” he makes a dismissive gesture, “never going to click. It started as a dare, for real, and after that we shut that shit down.”
I don’t even want to know what that says about whatever he’s trying to drum up with me. Casual, experimental sex isn’t something I do.
Well.
Until now.
“Good.”
He adds, “We never fucked,” and I stop him.
“Not my business. Ask your question, it’s getting late.”
Despite being the one to ask permission, a frission of dread seems to pass over his eyes. “You don’t have to answer,” he says, passing the cigarette back to me. “I was just wondering what happened to your back.”
I freeze, cigarette still outstretched between us. Fuck. How did I let him see that? How did I possibly forget about the ugly, criss-crossed mess of marks from Doug’s favorite belt? Fucking careless, stupid, sex-fueled bullshit. “Nothing. Long story.”
“Okay,” he replies, instantly backing off. “Why don’t I ever see you around with your camera.”
Blindsided by the sudden change of topic, I ask, “What?”
“You’re in the photography club. You took that picture of Abby.” He shrugs, loose and unbothered. “Just seems like you’d be taking more pictures.”
At least this is easier to answer. “I don’t really know anyone here—except Georgia. Vandy, I guess. Can’t leave campus much, so not much opportunity for landscapes. Everyone in the club takes the same four pictures of the campus.”