I dream of Kenet. I dream that I roll over in the night, and feel him there. I know it is him, by his scent, by the sound of his breath–so familiar it nearly makes my heart break like some half-remembered lullaby. My hand slides along his rib cage and he whimpers, pressing against me, nestling close in the crook of my arm.
I know what I will find when I slip my hand over his hip and then to his crotch. I will find him warm and moist, perhaps not fully hard yet. I hope I will find him half-flaccid so that the pleasure of him coming alive in my hand can be mine.
It is. I stroke him slowly, so slowly, that fresh whimpers issue from his throat as his hips jerk with impatience, nudging at my hand like a horse’s head eager for a carrot.
“Shhh,” I soothe. “Let us not rush.”
“Hush. Have I ever left you unsatisfied, my prince?”
Mirrored from Circlet Press: Welcome to Circlet 2.0.