Dukes of Madness: Royals of Forsyth U (Royals of Forsyth University Book 5)
Dukes of Madness: Chapter 17

Dinner takes forever.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the community of it, the tradition. My first year at Forsyth, I’d missed that. Having grown up with Nick, three parents, six grandparents, Dad’s tribal pals and Pops’ old DKS buddies, I was accustomed to a full, boisterous dinner table, and a one-dollar value burger inside my empty dorm room was pretty fucking depressing. It was definitely one of the draws of pledging DKS, and fuck, I love the food, but tonight my patience is on a hair trigger.

“Take a breath, bro,” Remy says, shoveling a forkful of banana pudding into his mouth. “And eat some of this. It’ll take the edge off.”

Easy for him to say.

He got laid last night.

I shake my head. Unlike Remy, who is attracted to every addictive substance in the world: sugar, pills, booze, pussy… only one thing will take the edge off for me.

“I didn’t work out today,” I snap. And I didn’t get jerked off last night—his fault, by the way, for getting her home so late. She was probably too fucked out from him to bother caring about her obligation to me. Cracking my neck, I search for my inner calm, tucking away all my frustration and…

Fine, I’ll admit it.

Jealousy.

“I just need to get in the ring,” I mutter, curling over my plate. “Blow off some steam.”

Remy rolls his eyes at me, because he has some kind of sixth-sense for my bullshit.

“Ignore him,” Nick says from across the table, voice rough. Speaking of shit, he looks like it, sporting a ragged beard that makes him look way too much like Pops. It annoys me that tonight’s Fury is for him. His hands have been weirdly unsteady all morning. Clearly, I’d be better suited. There’s a touch of sallowness to his skin and something about it makes him look gaunt, haggard. The only good thing I can say is that he doesn’t have any injuries. When I asked him about what kind of job made him look like he survived three days in a Mexican jail, he blew me off, just saying, “Bruin stuff.”

I won’t pretend that doesn’t rankle.

Something tells me whatever he was doing is going to come back and kick us in the ass, but Nick’s exploits, like Remy’s pudding, are not my focus right now.

The object of my obsession is talking to Verity and cleaning up the leftovers, and my eyes are drawn to her like a magnet. She’s wearing a black dress, the lacy neckline scooping to show a modest portion of cleavage while the bottom is soft and fluttery, swaying enticingly over her thighs every time she turns or takes a step. Ever since she became Duchess, I’ve begun noticing the feminine figure in a way I’m not used to, my gaze traversing their curves, my mind offering whispers of how it might feel to follow them with my hands. The dress she’s wearing accentuates hers, showing off the way I’ve been feeding her since I got her back from her father. She’s still too skinny, but her hips are a little fuller, her bones a little less pronounced. There’s color to her skin again, and when she turns, I find my gaze wandering to her legs, which look smooth and inviting.

A lot of the DKS boys are staring at her, too.

When she bends down to grab a fallen napkin from beneath the buffet table, Remy mutters a low curse. “Goddamn. I don’t know what you’ve been doing to our girl, Sy, but keep going. Her ass is looking nice and perky.”

Rolling my eyes, I stab my fork into my salad. “She’s probably been malnourished for the better part of two years. If she wants to have any hope of getting into shape, she’s going to need to put some weight on. Not everything is about your dick.”

She doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve got her on a dieting plan to fill her out a little more, and I’ve been watching—a little too eagerly—for the results. It’s strictly health-focused. The fact that her ass is growing rounder, almost sculpted into the perfect shape, is just a coincidence.

Mostly.

“At least there’s no sniping,” Nick rumbles, picking at his dessert. “Can’t deal with bitches and their drama today.”

Lavinia has handled her re-entry with DKS better than expected. Unlike last time, she’s dressed appropriately, she’s been helpful and friendly, and I even caught Mama B giving her a playful grin earlier. I don’t know what caused the turnaround in attitude. Although four days of being held captive in a box at her father’s house probably had something to do with it. In fact, ever since her return, she’s been the model Duchess. Attentive to Remy. Civil to Nick. Obedient to me.

The problem is that she’s a female.

A woman.

A Royal woman.

Making men soft and compliant is what they do to gain control.

I can still feel the weight of her on me from the other night, when she climbed on top of me to fulfill her own needs. That was nothing to do with me or our arrangement and everything with her being horny. Most guys would be more than happy to be used like that, but I was so pissed off about blowing my wad and feeling unmoored, lost, inexperienced, that I didn’t really have a chance to consider what it meant.

She was horny.

Was she horny for me?

Like, specifically?

I look over at her, and she’s looking this way. Not at me. Not at Nick. Her eyes meet Remy’s as he sucks the pudding off his finger, tongue flicking the ring under the tattooed ‘D.’

Jesus Christ.

“Can you be any more embarrassing?” I ask. This is what I hate about sex. The flashiness. The bragging. It’s like no one can fuck a girl without broadcasting it to everyone. I mean, I have the biggest dick in this frat—possibly even in this whole fucking city—but do you see me pulling it out and slapping it on the table?

“Can’t help it,” Remy says, looking unapologetic as he leans back in his seat, adjusting the front of his pants. “I got a taste of what it’s like to be buried balls deep in her, and I want another hit.” He lifts his hand and gestures for her to come over, not even hearing himself. She probably has him right where she wants him, addicted to her cunt.

She hands a stack of plates to a passing cutslut and comes our way, hovering beside Remy. “Guys,” she says, resting her hands on her hips. “Everything okay? You need some more dessert?”

I look at Nick, and then Remy. Are neither of them seeing this?

She’s definitely too well-behaved.

I’d written it in my journal this morning.

L: Alert but noticeably sleep deprived. Subject is gaining weight. Suspiciously non-combative. Shaved her legs yesterday. Displays a new willingness to endure proximity to N. Vaginal intercourse between her and R last night at appx 11pm. Completed orgasm, followed by stillness. I assume sleep. No injuries.

“Just wanted to remind everyone in the room who you belong to,” Remy replies, hand running up the back of her thigh. I watch as it vanishes under her dress, his tattooed forearm stark against her smooth thighs.

I know the second she stiffens, eyes widening as the tendons in his arms shift, exactly where his fingers have wandered to. “Remy,” she begins, a warning in her voice, but he just tuts.

“I’m your Duke tonight, Vinny.”

The wideness of her eyes relaxes, and I assume at first it’s his words, that there’s something about calling himself her Duke that puts her into weird Stepford mode. But then a glaze falls over her eyes, her lids growing heavy, body swaying to the rhythm of… whatever he’s doing beneath that skirt—fuck, I wish I could see—and I realize she’s just into it.

He’s making her feel good.

Nick’s eyes, just like every other guy in the room, track every movement. Remy isn’t subtle, and neither is Lavinia, who puts one hand on his shoulder and grips hard enough that her fingers wrinkle the fabric of his designer shirt.

It’s not a surprise when Nick suddenly lurches his chair back with an ear-splitting screech, storming away. All three of us watch as he ambles past the tables, throwing the doors open and disappearing behind them.

N: Withdrawn. Exhibiting signs of injury but predictably unwilling to speak about it. Low mood, irritable. Subject being a little bitch.

“And he says I’m the drama queen,” Remy mutters, the muscles in his arm still steadily shifting.

R: Active. Alert. Head Check: 8. Taking medication without difficulty. Willing to take his meals socially. Well-rested following intercourse with L. Spent an inordinate amount of time in the shower this morning. Appears unconcerned with her behavior. Lack of inhibition. Subject being a little bitch.

“Do you have to do that to him?” I ask, already dreading going home tonight. No one throws a fit like Nick does—silently, tensely, turning the whole mood of a room sour without even making a sound. “You know he can’t handle this shit.”

And he’s not the only one, I want to say. My cock is harder than a lead pipe.

Remy just fixes me with a look. “We’ve kept every end of our bargain, and now it’s his turn. We can’t keep coddling him. He needs to learn to deal with it.”

I want to ask him how he can do that, sit here and talk all casually while his fingers are playing with her cunt. It’d be nice to know how to use my fingers, too, only my lesson got delayed on account of him fucking my tutor.

“I can’t sit here all night,” I snap, throwing down my napkin. “I’m going to get ready for my workout.” I nod at her. “And you, too. Go change. You have more than one Duke to attend to.”

At least she doesn’t look disappointed. I’ve noticed that despite the bitching and moaning she puts up at any mention of exercise, there’s always a light in her eyes right before we get started. I see it now, even as Remy unhappily removes his hand from her skirt.

He sighs, long and beleaguered, only to tug her down, bringing her mouth to his. Right before their lips meet, however, he slips two fingertips into her mouth.

The same fingers he’d been touching her with, I realize.

She pauses as she tastes herself and I watch, hypnotized, as she accepts it, her pink tongue peeking out to slither between them. But then Remy is there, his tongue meeting hers as they lick around his fingers, slow and uncomfortably sensual.

I stand, clearing my throat. “Now, Lavinia.” Remy lets her go, smirking when she springs upright, her cheeks blazing red as the DKS boys look on in varying degrees of interest. I keep my hips twisted away from the table, hiding the unhidable.

My dick bulges inside my pants, unmistakable.

Lavinia’s eyes glance at it, and then dart quickly away. “Just give me a second in the dressing room,” she says, skittering away.

Remy arches an eyebrow. “I highly recommend the dessert.”

The three of us dispersing seems to do the trick for clearing out the dinner. When I exit the locker room, the place is empty other than Verity and a few other cutsluts in the kitchen. I take a few laps around the gym and hit the weights in the corner, getting myself warmed up. When Lavinia walks out dressed in tights and a sports bra, her blue hair secured back in a high ponytail, my blood is already pumping. I quickly hop into the ring while she hesitates on the edge.

“What?” I ask, annoyed.

“I’ve never been in the ring before,” she says, worrying her lip. “I mean, as a Duchess and a ring girl, but never as a… fighter?” She says the word dubiously, as if she’s unsure I’d let her use that word in reference to herself.

I shrug, swiping sweat from my brow. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” she says, wrapping her hands around the rope. “To the Dukes, at least. Fighting is your… well, everything.”

“Then you should do fine. You fight back more than any opponent I’ve ever been up against.” My eyes travel down her body. “You just use different weapons.” Choosing to remain silent about that, she works her way through the ropes, already breathing heavily when she gets on the mat. “You’re seriously that out of shape?” I eye her heaving chest, the tight Lycra squeezing her tits together. “How is that possible?”

She shoots me a hot glare. “Did you miss the part about me living in captivity for the last two years?” I’m pretty sure she mutters a sharp ‘dumbass’ at the end of her sentence, but I decide to let it slide. “Okay, so, what’s tonight’s lesson?”

Snagging a sip from my water bottle, I begin, “Now that you’ve learned not to break your hand when you throw a punch, I just want to go back to a few of the basics.” I gesture for her to meet me in the middle of the ring. She stares up at me, so open and trusting that my eyes are drawn to her lips. The fervent shade of them. The plush give when she rakes one through her teeth. The faint shine of her saliva.

Briefly, I wonder if she still tastes like her pussy.

“If you’re in a situation you need to get out of, the best thing to do is KISS.” She frowns, eyes dropping to my mouth. My hands curl into fists and I get this split second of clarity that I could do it. Kiss her. Push my tongue between her teeth and take. Refusing to fall into her gravity, I snap back, elaborating, “‘Keep it simple, stupid’. K-I-S-S.”

Her eyes narrow. “Simple.”

I approach her, hands hovering over her body heat as I go through a series of motions. “Throat, eyes, knee, stomp and,” I lift my knee, “groin. Obviously.”

She throws me a dark smirk. “Obviously.”

We practice the moves, going over each one. The first time I touch her—my hand cupping her elbow to correct her form—she flinches. It’s a small thing, and if her hair weren’t right below my nose, I might have even missed it.

“Keep your shoulders square,” I say, resenting how low and breathy my voice sounds.

She does as instructed, which just shimmies her back against me, her ass a hairsbreadth from brushing my cock.

“If it’s a random guy on the street, any of these should take them by surprise, but if it’s someone more physical—more savvy—”

“More like your brother….” She twists to glance at me over her shoulder.

I refrain from telling her Nick could shake any of these off. “Yeah, or another Royal—I want you to learn how to get away.”

Her mouth purses unhappily. “That’s incredibly lame and not what we agreed to.”

My thumb skates down her lower arm as I let her elbow go. “I agreed to teach you how to protect yourself. This is part of it.”

Across the gym, Verity turns off the kitchen light and waves to us before exiting the back door. It’s just the two of us now. Alone. I inhale, taking in the mixture of shampoo and sweat.

“Fine,” she sighs, shoulders losing some of her tension. “Teach me how to be lame.”

“Give me your hand.” That’s how it starts, with holds, clamping my large hand around her skinny wrists and teaching her how to manipulate her body, how to leverage her strength against mine. The further we go, the more I have to touch her. Hands on her waist, crotch against her backside, forearm curled over her breasts. I make sure the touches are precise and purposeful, but they keep… lingering. I walk her through a clinch hold and there’s nothing sexy about having her head wedged under my armpit as she struggles against me, and yet…

My dick might die.

It probably looks comical from the outside, my six-foot-four frame combined with two hundred pounds of muscle, getting the slip from this tiny wisp of a girl, but that’s what she needs to learn. Lavinia is never going to out-fight Nick or even Perez. But I can help her get a head start, and sometimes that’s enough.

“Got it?” I ask, when she gets away from me for the tenth time.

“Yeah, I think so.” She nods, her face fully flushed. There’s these spots on her arms where I’ve restrained her that have been rubbed to redness, and I find myself staring at them as I gulp down a quick drink of water. They’re all splotchy and irritated with the shapes of my fingers and I wonder if her hips look the same. “What’s next?” she asks, drinking from her own bottle.

I watch the bob of her throat as she swallows. “Chokeholds.”

Capping her bottle, she tosses it aside, swaggering to the center of the ring with a wicked grin on her face. Then she moves into a squatting wrestler pose, hips swaying back and forth. “Bring it on, big bear.”

Fuck.

There’s no way she’s not goading me.

Abruptly, I lunge for her, catching her body and dragging her tight, painfully, against my chest. I flatten my arm around her neck, bicep flexed, and I can feel the flutter of her pulse against my overheated skin. Recovering quickly, she fights against me, and I still her, speaking low in her ear. “Pull my hand off of my neck and bend it backwards.” I let her run through the motions, while not giving too much slack.

“You’re holding me too tight!” she whines, giving a spirited thrash.

Lazily, I reply, “I don’t think an attacker is going to take it easy on you just because you bitched a little bit. Try harder.” Grunting, she bucks against me, the scent of her hair trapped in my nose as her ass bumps against my crotch. It’s taking everything in me not to throw her to this mat and rip the Lycra from her body. Focusing, I command, “Try to get your arm under mine, pushing it aside long enough to get leverage.”

She struggles against me, hips wiggling against my cock. “Your arm is too fucking big.” She grunts. “Just like your goddamn cock.”

Everything goes still for a moment and then I’m pushing her—shoving her—away. She takes it in stride, hopping a few steps ahead as I turn, hands propped on my hips. I take a short, slow walk around the ring, trying to tuck away the tight, angry, horny feeling that’s constricting my abdomen. Deep breaths. Calm. Ocean waves. Tranquility.

My balls are killing me.

Breathlessly, so quiet that I barely hear it, Lavinia says, “Sorry, I was just—”

I give a curt shake of my head, pulling my discarded shirt from the floor to wipe my forehead, wicking off the sweat. “Again?”

When I turn back to her, she’s chewing on her lip—not helping—and giving me this look. If she weren’t a Lucia, I’d assume she felt guilty. “I let it get to me,” she explains. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Yeah, you should’ve.” Shrugging, I return to the center of the ring. “Piss off your opponent. Go for the jugular. Be a viper.” She winces at the word, but for the first time, it’s not an insult. “Use the weapons you’ve honed, Lavinia. Just because you don’t like where they’ve come from doesn’t mean they aren’t useful. Now.” I pin her with a look. “Again.”

From there, it gets complicated—for me.

Every move, every action forces her body closer to mine. I want it, but I hate it. I fucking loathe the way I’m one step, one touch, one moment of weakness from losing control. I try to focus on the work, on the hand movements and teaching her to use her brains, but this is a test for me just as much as for her.

“Ah ha!” she yelps, finally slipping out of my grip. “Gotcha! I win!”

It’d take my breath away, actually—the way her face goes alight, arms raised in victory, mouth spread into a jubilant grin—if it weren’t for the impulse.

The competitor, the winner in me strikes out, reaching out and grabbing her. It’s easy to toss her to the cushioned mat. She goes down like a feather, landing on her back with this stunned, confused expression that might be funny if not for the storm raging within me.

I jump on her, knees straddling her tight little body, and then I reach out, hands clenching around the delicate column of her throat. “What about this, Lavinia? Think you can get away?”

Eyes shuttering, she grapples at my hands, nails digging into the skin. There’s no way she doesn’t feel the hard press of my cock between us, and it gets harder the more I have her under my control. I grind against her, finally giving in to the craving for a warm spark of friction. I’m so much bigger than she is. I could just take her if I wanted, rip her pants down, whip my cock out, and force it inside her hot, wet, tight—

She grabs my cock.

The grip is much like the one I’m using to hold her neck, except her motion isn’t rough. It’s tight. Firm. My hands loosen and my hips jerk, a hiss escaping my clenched teeth.

She pants up at me, her mouth pursed into a hard, disapproving line. “If you want a handjob, Perilini, you don’t have to rough house me to get my attention. I already agreed.”

I fight the urge to wring her neck, instead tightening my thighs and rolling us so that she’s on top. I don’t ask. I don’t beat around the bush. I don’t even give her the chance to have an opinion about it.

I reach up and shove at her sports bra, wrenching it over her full, round tits. Her whole body jostles as I fight to get it over her head, off her arms, throwing it to the side.

“Ride me,” I tell her, flexing my hips up. There’s an eagerness in my voice that I fail to mask, but I try to distract her from it, reaching up to palm her tits just like she showed me. I feel a rush when the nipple pebbles in my hand. “Ride me like you did the other night.” Her hips rock in a slow, deliberate roll, dragging down my length. “Ride me like you’re fucking me.” I reach out and hold her chin, forcing her to look at me. “But this time it’s about me. Not you.”

That’s what I want. I can’t have it. I can’t get ‘balls deep’ like Remy or rip my way into her like Nick. But I can lie in the winner’s ring and let her pleasure me like a Duchess should.

“Way to sweet talk a girl,” she mutters, but grinds against me, tits bouncing lazily with each thrust. Even through the layer of clothes, it feels like delicious torture, her pussy sliding against me as she braces her palms on my chest. I feel like we’re in an oven, my skin so hot that I can feel the sweat springing up.

But when I look up at Lavinia’s face, her expression is weak. Passive.

Jesus.

She’s bored.

I clamp my hands on her hips, stopping her.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“Huh?” she asks, giving me a little nudge with her pussy. “Harder? Faster?” When I just stare up at her, she deflates, looking tired. “I don’t know with you anymore, Sy. Tell me what won’t piss you off when I make you come.”

Then it hits me. The force of it is just like the right hook Pops got me with when I was fifteen and thought I could take him down in the ring. Slam! Right in the jaw.

I push her off, dropping her on the mat with a thud. She grabs for her top, using it to cover her breasts. “What the hell, Perilini?”

I bend my knees and rest my elbows on them, my cock furious at me for stopping. “Something tells me you didn’t look like that with Remy.” I lace my fingers together, squeezing my fists so hard they tremble. “I fucking suck at this.”

“I know.” The look she gives me is a huge duh. “That’s the whole point of this little lesson thing, right? You suck at sex. I suck at defending myself.”

I snort. “Yeah, well, at least you’re making progress. I’m just…” I wince, unable to say it.

“You’re not a loser, Sy,” she says, slouching next to me, and I shoot her a look. What the fuck. That was not what I was going to say. “You’re a repressed, sexually stunted, monster-cocked misogynist. None of those go great together.” She rests her hand on my arm. “I feel like… somewhere along the way, you and your brother thought the way to get an orgasm was through beating your partner into submission. I mean, some girls get off on that. Sometimes I’ve even…” If she wasn’t flushed before, then she is now, her cheeks turning a deep scarlet. “What I’m saying is that you need to give a shit about the other person. I’m not talking about love, or even… like. You just need to want them to feel as good as you do. And if you don’t? If you can’t feel that for me, or for any other girl, then you’re never going to be good at sex.”

I know what she’s saying is true. I felt it that night she rode me, unconcerned with what I was feeling or doing. But it still chafes at something deep inside. A sense of pride? Some long-nurtured wound? Either way, my jaw clenches at the thought. “I don’t know what you like.”

She ducks her head, trying to meet my eyes. “Yes, you do. I’ve been telling you—showing you. All this time, I’ve been telling you.”

Sighing, I look at her. We’re close on the mat, her arm pressed into mine. I reach out and gently tug the top out of her hands, making her drop the bra. She doesn’t fight me. What’s the point? Once it’s gone, I flatten my palm over her tit because I know she likes it. Remy said she also likes it when she has something done to her pussy, but knowing him, it involves eating her out and that shit isn’t happening. Not a fucking chance.

So, I focus back on her tits, tugging at her nipple until her back arches, and a soft exhale comes from her parted lips. I spend a long moment staring at them, thinking back to that first night in the motel when she asked me to kiss her.

Kissing isn’t something I normally like to do. It’s all spit and teeth, and there’s a good possibility I’m just bad at it. But for some reason, I’ve been thinking about it all night, and I finally give in to the impulse, bending to brush her mouth with mine.

The second our lips touch, there’s a low, humming buzz of heat.

She leans into it, opening her mouth to my tongue as her hand runs down my bare chest. Her fingers toy with the hair on my lower belly, making a slow, deliberate descent as I lick into her, a groan building in my chest.

She hesitates when she reaches my cock, her fingertip tracing the length of my shaft over the fabric of my sweats to the painful, swollen head of it, jutting against my waistband. Gently, she squeezes.

I hiss into her mouth. “You know I’ll come if you do that.”

“Take a deep breath, big bear,” she says, nudging my lips with hers. “This isn’t a fight. Work with me, not against me.”

I plunge my tongue into her mouth, mostly to get her to shut up, but partly because focusing on something else, someone else, gives me the slightest bit of distraction. “What do you want me to do?” I ask between deep, plunging kisses.

“You can kiss my neck,” she says, dropping her head to the side. “Or my tits.”

I close my lips around the soft skin of her neck, just below her jaw, and feel her heartbeat against my tongue as I suck. At the sound of her soft sigh, I suck harder, knowing full well I’m leaving a mark that everyone will see later.

This makes her breaths deepen, and when she tangles her fingers into my hair, I lick down her collarbones, pushing her back as my mouth finds her tit.

The thing about Lavinia is that she has a fucking fantastic body. I cup her breasts in my hand as I lick and suck, considering that she’s the perfect womanly form. Nick and I have always shared a type. It used to annoy me when we were younger, because I’d never really let myself look at a girl like that until Nick brought her around and put her under my nose. Remy would call it sibling rivalry, as if I only wanted something when Nick had it. But that wasn’t strictly true.

Nick just has great taste.

She leans back on one elbow, sprawled across the mat, her muscles loosening as I lave her nipples with the flat of my tongue. I’m so dedicated to the task, so absorbed in her little hitches of breath, that I almost miss her reaching into my pants.

My stomach does a violent flip at the first brush of her fingers against my skin. She doesn’t handle me like she used to. There’s no more pinching my cock distastefully between forefinger and thumb to avoid making any meaningful contact. There’s no grimacing or shudders.

She just grasps me, pulling me from my pants with a long, full-palmed stroke. “That feels good,” she whispers.

She could be talking about my cock.

She could be talking about my mouth on her chest.

She could be talking about the square root of pi for all I care.

Slowly, she works from the base to the head, thumb toying the tip. The urge charges through me, the uncontrollable need to thrust, to come.

I slap my hand over hers on my cock, already panting like a dog. “I can’t.”

“Deep breaths,” she repeats, voice smooth as satin as she guides my hand to her waist. “Just keep taking deep breaths.”

I inhale and then kiss the round curve of her shoulder. I inhale and kiss the center of her sternum. I inhale and bury my nose between her breasts, willing my cock to hold on for just a minute longer.

“You said you’d teach me,” I rumble, muscles seizing with the way she’s stroking me. “My fingers…” Running my hand down her stomach, I pause at her waistband before pushing my fingers underneath the tight leggings.

Wordlessly, she spreads her thighs, and some part of me is stunned stupid at her easy willingness to let me into this soft, warm, private place. I touch her pubic mound first, finding it smooth, hairless. I need to put that in my journal, but right now, I’m just lost. I poke and prod until she grabs my wrist, leading me into the soft warmth.

“Right here.” She presses my finger into the slippery folds.

“Fuck.” I feel like I’ve just been gutted somehow, and when I pull back to stare into her heavy eyes, I’m embarrassed at the wonderment in my voice. “You’re wet.”

Her mouth parts with a long breath, and she nods. “That’s… kind of the point, isn’t it?”

I made you wet, I think as I glide my fingertips up and down her slit, watching her body slacken more and more. Her thighs fall wider, but when I venture lower, she guides my wrist back up.

“Nowhere else,” she insists, pressing my fingertips through the fabric of her pants. “Right. Here.”

“Yeah,” I agree, feeling the little nub. Her clit.

The understanding that I make her wet keeps sending a jolt of want to my balls. There’s something excitingly primal about the concept of her body getting ready for me, wanting me, preparing for me, without even knowing who or what I am. I breathe in and out, realizing that she’s doing the same. Her gasps are different, though, the rhythm synced to the way I touch her, short little movements that beat in time with the rock of her hips. Her hand fists my cock, and even though the angles are all awkward and stilted, she keeps pace, jerking my cock to the same rhythm I’m rubbing her clit. Our bodies have this conversation, a connection, and I finally allow myself to sink into the feeling. The feel of her womanhood, her skin, her wetness, her breath. I watch her so intensely that I don’t even think about where we’re doing this. How could I when she’s planting her heels on the mat, bucking up into my fingers?

Her face glows redder, and she makes a sound, soft and needy, that sends my nerves into a victorious fury. She’s close. I can feel it in the growing slickness on my fingers, see it in her expression. There’s this desperate little divot between her eyebrows and I’m wondering if she’s faking it, faking this whole thing, but then she gasps, followed by a deep inhale, her hand clenching around my cock as she shudders against my side.

I’d never admit it, but it’s the satisfaction of making her look like that, sound like that, that makes me come, hard and fast—too fast—spilling all over her hand. It should feel disappointing, watching her build up to this deep, body-wracking, all-consuming climax as my cock just lamely surges with absurd amounts of cum, but it doesn’t.

It feels like victory, and nothing feels better than that.

“Fuck,” I mutter, not sure if it’s about the orgasm, the mess, or having my mind blown.

She looks up at me, the overhead lights at the gym shining down on me, and I’m not sure it matters.

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