Voyeur - Lacey Alexander [2]
But what if Monica was right? What if her block truly had something to do with sex? After all, she didn’t really miss David. She didn’t miss his company, or his face, or his voice. But as she swallowed the last sip of wine in her stemmed glass and poured another, she couldn’t deny that she did miss being touched, being entered.
She’d never thought she was a highly sexual person, unlike Monica, who lived for sex. In fact, Monica’s sexploits were a big reason Laura was able to dismiss Monica’s theory so easily—her best friend was a nympho and, like Freud, thought everything related to sex. But as a sip of wine moved warmly down through her chest, she couldn’t deny that the crux of her thighs ached at the thought of intimacy, that her breasts felt tender, sensitive.
Pushing to her feet, she moved across the room toward the same huge wall of windows she’d worked next to earlier in the day. There were no blinds or shades, and the deep carpet of snow beyond shone silvery in the moonlight, doing its part to light the room.
Slowly, deliberately, she lifted one hand to her breast. Her nipple jutted through her pajama top, hard against her palm. She squeezed gently, vaguely wishing the touch were that of a man—a bigger hand, a slightly rougher caress. She raked her thumb across the pearlized peak and felt a whoosh of desire sweep through her crotch.
Maybe if sex was the problem here, she thought as she made her way back to the couch and drained her glass a second time, she should attempt to do something about it. Hell, for all she knew, a good orgasm would loose her creativity. If nothing else, it might help her sleep.
Lowering her glass to the coffee table, she raised her hands to her breasts, covering them, slowly massaging. Her pussy flooded, just from that. She hardly ever did this—got herself off—but clearly she needed to come. She hardly ever thought of her vagina as her pussy, either, yet something about the moment almost called for it—that certain bluntness the word provided. A rose by any other name is still a rose . . . and in the quiet stillness of the dimly lit room where she was becoming intoxicated with wine and desire, there was no reason not to think of it that way. Just like if a man had been there—he would think of it that way, so she would, too. Sometimes even she needed to quit being her conservative self and just act without thinking.
Unbuttoning the two top buttons of her pajamas, she reached inside, moving her left hand to her right breast. Once again, she found herself wishing it were a masculine touch, but desperate times indeed called for desperate measures.
She twirled her erect nipple between thumb and forefinger, relishing the fresh rush of blood to her cunt. Mmm, yes. Pleasure. Want. And another dirty word. It, too, fit the moment—the raw arousal echoing through her. She did need this. So bad.
Still, as she slipped her other hand between her legs, she harbored that same helpless wish—for a strong, virile, sexy man.
But stop it. Quit wishing. Quit thinking. Just do this. Rub yourself.
It took only a gentle massage to keep her pussy humming with eagerness. Maybe it was the solitude that made the self-caress easier than ever before, the knowledge that no one else was around—it was just her and the fire and the snow. Of course, the wine had certainly helped, too. It hadn’t made her any sleepier, but it had relaxed her—way more than a mere two glasses usually did.
That’s when it hit her. Alcohol increased the effects of high altitude. No wonder she felt so . . . loopy. Pleasantly drunk. Free. To do . . . whatever.
Reaching up, she untied the drawstring at her waist and eased out of the snowflake pajama bottoms, letting them drop to the floor. She leaned back on the sofa, legs parted, two fingers stroking through her pink cotton bikini