I move behind Klay, my hand shaking as I press a knee onto the edge of the bed and reach between his legs, gently fisting his thrumming shaft. Jesus. Jesus, it’s like hot steel, shaped like it has been sculpted by an artist. “Can I jack it a little?” God help me, those words are out of my mouth before I know what I’m saying. I watch tension ripple up Klay’s spine with a sense of dread and self-loathing. But then he grunts, “Just a little.” Oh my God.
