My body spasmed.
But I didn’t c*m.
I couldn’t.
I was right there.
Right at the edge.
And it just… slipped.
Gone.
My fingers fell away.
My hand hit the tile with a soft slap.
I laid there panting.
You Touched Yourself Pr f*****g trembling.
Wet and frustrated and furious.
Because Damon didn’t even f**k me.
He didn’t touch my clit.
Didn’t eat me.
Didn’t even kiss me.
He just teased.
Just talked.
Just rubbed that thick, veiny c**k along my soaked body like he knew it would destroy me.
And it did.
He said I’d think about it all day.
He said I’d hate it.
He was right.
I curled onto my side, thighs sticking together from slick and shame.
And whispered his name.
“Damon…”
Nothing.
No answer.
Just silence.
And the ache of not being enough for him to stay.
The silence ate me alive.
I laid there like a f*****g ghost. Skin flushed. Cunt throbbing. My chest rising and falling with shallow, broken breaths while the taste of him lingered on my tongue like sin.
Why did he leave.
Why the f**k did he tease me like that. Touch me like that. Say those things to me. And just walk away like none of it mattered.
Like I didn’t matter.
I curled tighter on the tile. Nails digging into my palm. Thighs sticky with need and shame and the ache of a girl who had just wrecked herself for a man who didn’t even f**k her.
I didn’t hear the door.
Didn’t hear the footsteps.
I just felt it.
That shift in the air. That tightening in my gut. Like something dark had returned to claim what it owned.
You Touched Yourself Pri
And it had.
“Lyra.”
His voice slid down my spine like ice.
I jerked up too fast. My hand slipped in the mess I’d made and I caught myself with a gasp. My knees splayed wide. My back hit the cold tile. My body laid out like a sacrifice.
He stood in the doorway.
Still dressed from the meeting. Shirt black. Collar open. Sleeves rolled. Forearms taut with fury. Veins bulging. One hand on the doorframe. The other curled into a fist like he was holding back violence.
His eyes dropped.
He saw everything.
The open legs. The flushed skin. The sticky trail on my inner thigh. My fingers. Still slick. Still twitching. Still buried halfway in my cunt.
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t move.
Just watched.
My heart seized.
My mouth opened.
But he spoke first.
“I told you,” he said, stepping in..
“You’d think about it all day.”
I didn’t breathe.
“I told you,” he repeated, “you’d f*****g hate it.”
He shut the door.
Click.
That sound echoed louder than my heartbeat.
“And yet,” he said, slow steps bringing him closer, “you crawled back in here like a dog. And got yourself off on my f*****g floor.”
I whimpered.
He stopped at my feet.
Towering over me.
“I didn’t even touch you,” he said.
I couldn’t speak.
“And look at you,” he sneered.
“Soaking. Shaking. Spreading your slutty little cunt for your own fingers like you thought they’d ever compare to mine.”
He crouched.
You Touched Yourself Pn.
Slow.
Calculated.
Like he had all the time in the world to dismantle me.
His eyes were molten.
Burning with disgust and hunger and something far more dangerous.
“You think I didn’t smell it,” he murmured.
“You think I didn’t know you were in here. Pathetic. Wet. f*****g whining into the silence because your p***y missed me.”
I gasped.
He dragged a finger along my slit.
Wet.
Slick.
Still leaking.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.