Spit snd Sawdust - part 2
His fingers brushed against my hip — just a flicker at first, like he was testing a theory. I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My legs had turned to syrup, my core already pulsing with leftover need.
He smelled of wood shavings, sun-warmed cotton, and sweat — not the sterile, bottled kind, but the raw, earthy scent of a man who’d been working hard all morning. The smell hit me like a punch. My knees nearly buckled.
“You smell that?” he murmured, so close his breath ghosted across my cheek.
I nodded, dizzy.
“That’s what you’ve been watching all day, isn’t it? This sweat,” he said, dragging two fingers along his neck and holding them up between us, “got you all bothered?”
The sight of it — slick and glistening — made my mouth part involuntarily.
“Come here,” he said, gripping my jaw with rough fingers, guiding my face toward his hand. “Go on. You earned it.”
I don’t know what possessed me, but I leaned in and licked—slowly, deliberately—catching the salt of his skin on my tongue. He growled, actually growled, low in his throat like he couldn’t believe it.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, grabbing the back of my neck now, pressing our bodies together. His t-shirt was damp, clinging to him, and I could feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace. My nipples rubbed hard against the fabric of my top, and I gasped at the friction.
“You got yourself all worked up in here,” he said, slipping his hand down, tugging at the waistband of my joggers. “And for what? Just imagining what I’d do to you?”
I whimpered as his fingers slid between my legs, finding me wet — so wet — like I’d been waiting for this all morning.
“Fuck,” he whispered, voice thick. “Soaked. And I haven’t even touched you properly.”
He backed me up against the unfinished shelving, wood cool against my spine, rough enough to catch the fabric of my top. His hand stayed between my thighs, teasing, tormenting, slick fingers circling and pressing until I was trembling.
I reached for him, grabbing a fistful of his t-shirt and yanking it up, baring his stomach. His skin was slick and warm, taut over muscle, dusted with hair that led downward. I let my hands roam, greedily, shamelessly. He was solid, filthy in the best way — all sweat and heat and the sound of his breath growing heavier in my ear.
“You gonna come for me right here?” he rasped. “Like this? While I’m still in my work boots?”
I nodded, desperate, rocking my hips against his hand.
He leaned in, biting gently at my neck, one hand braced on the shelving behind me while the other worked magic below.
“Then do it,” he growled. “Come like you’ve been fantasising all damn day.”
And I did.
With a cry that filled the unfinished room, legs shaking, body grinding against his palm as I shattered right there against the dusty wall — the scent of him in my nose, the weight of him against my chest, the taste of sweat still on my tongue.
When I finally caught my breath, he was watching me with a look that said we were far from finished.
“That sandwich’s gonna have to wait,” he said, licking his thumb like a man starved. “I’ve got other things to work on first.”
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