It had taken less than half the movie for Scott Fester to fall asleep, which left Julie sitting on the couch next to him in a fume of aggravation. He'd been the one who picked it out, after all. Historical period pieces like this weren't a favorite for either of them, but Scott had a thing for one of the stars and pleaded with Julie until she gave in.
Damnit, Scott
, she thought when she realized he was snoring.
Worse yet, as he'd nodded off, his shoulder and arm had slumped in next to hers, pressing strong, well-muscled biceps and deltoids against the skin of her much softer ones. Since the droolingly good looks of the film's leading man had been the only thing worth paying attention to, the sensation of contact with male flesh – Scott's flesh – set something simmering in her.
She sighed and looked at his face, pointing straight up as his head leaned back against the couch cushion.
Wake him up, Julie. Elbow him in the ribs. Make him suffer the rest of the way through this thing with you so you can bitch at him about it once it's done.
But she really couldn't. The clean, smooth cut of his features, all so perfect, and the mischievous disarray of his sandy curls went right through her. In moments like this, she saw all the way back to her first glimpse of him in third grade, when something about his eyes and his grin as he juggled a soccer ball struck a funny feeling into her chest that she didn't understand.
Oh, no, Julie
, she thought.
Don't. Not this again.
Across the room, angst shivered the voice of the film's heroine as she pleaded with her man not to return to the war. "I need you! I need you here! I couldn't bear it if ..."
Julie picked up the remote with her left hand. The wise, mature eighteen-year-old inside her meant to crank the volume up and jostle Scott with her elbow. But the weak, wistful young girl dialed it down instead, to just more than a whisper.
Her gaze returned to Scott's snoring face. Her right arm stayed pressed against him. Dropping the remote, she brought her left hand over and up, just short of brushing her knuckles and the back of her hand across his cheek. She moved the hand as though caressing him, diagonally down along his face, fingers curling, passing beneath his chin, then the whole hand extending to hover at his far cheek, feeling the warmth of it radiating through the air to her palm. At no point did she make contact.
She felt herself sucking her lower lip between her teeth, though she wasn't conscious of having initiated that.
Okay, that's enough. Wake him up and watch the rest of the movie, or just send him home.
Her hand glided through the air before his Adam's apple, eased its way in a careful curve that paralleled the front of his shirt, fabric tight across those athletic pectoral slabs, looser where his rib cage gave way to abs.
She heard her own breathing, faster than it should be.
There. That was very hot. Now move the hand away ... or ... or move it back up, pretend that you're feeling that powerful chest.
But she did not. Instead, her hand continued to float an inch or so above the line between his shirt and pants, right over the belt buckle.
She'd been moving her eyes back and forth from Scott's angelic, sleeping face to the path of her hand through the air. Now she focused them lower.
He lay slouched deeply into the couch, pelvis almost flat against the seat cushion. His legs weren't closed ... plenty of room between them for her hand.
Julie ...
She eased her fingers within a half-inch of his fly, then turned her hand and moved it farther, curling the fingers down between his legs, cupping the air just over his crotch.
Oh my god, what are you doing?
She had never gone this far before. The throb of her heart drowned out what was left of the sound from the television.
A glance at his face – still serene, snoring.
She shifted her body slightly, turning just enough to let her steal her right hand into the juncture between her legs without changing the contact between her upper arm and Scott's.
The touch of her finger, feather-soft against the tight fabric of her shorts, made her close her eyes a moment. She pressed more firmly, burrowing the finger between the flesh of her thighs to reach that perfect spot, right above her clitoris.
She gasped, trembled, lost her concentration – the fingers of her left hand grazed a seam in Scott's crotch.
Her eyes popped back open in a panic, but Scott didn't stir.
I'm touching him there
, she thought.
And she was. The seam ran right across a soft, smooth bulge that had to be his penis. Her fingertips remained in contact with that seam, its thick, firm weave telling her nothing about the feel of what lay beneath it, yet still electrifying to feel. Something surged within her. The flesh inside her panties inside her shorts under her hand heated and swelled.
She opened her legs a little and began to rub gently along the curve of her mound.
Her left hand slid off the seam, a fingertip tracing his shape under the thinner denim below it.
Oh, Scott ...
He was still snoring.
Both of her hands scaled their movements up – one braver, more raptured by curiosity in its explorations, the other more carnal, hungrily chasing the right position and the ideal amount of pressure to heighten her arousal and move forward into passionate masturbation.
The round shape beneath her left hand's gentle fingers now began to respond, first by swelling faintly, then by tensing, tightening the cloth that overlay it.
He's getting hard
, she thought.
I need to stop ...
Inside herself, though, she felt the harbinger warmth of her own orgasm approaching. Still at some distance, but getting closer, closer.
Her right hand intensified its desperate press of self-love. Her left eased tenderly up and down the tumescent shape in Scott's pants, no heavier than a tickle, but apparently enough to connect with something primal in him even in the midst of sleep.
She began to pant through her nose, trying to stay quiet. The rush and throb of climax called to her, very near now and being pulled steadily nearer with each stroke of her finger along the dampening crotch of her shorts.
Scott shifted, mumbled. His cock was a beam in his jeans, her hand folded around the upper curve of its length, easing up and down.
I need to stop, I need to stop –
So close ...
"Aah! Whu – " Scott's entire body suddenly stiffened harder than his dick beneath her fingers. "Julie! What the hell are you doing?"
Both her hands leapt in terror from their delightful work to her mouth.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
A sea of guilt and fear, icy, sharp, washed the orgasm far away before it could carry her off.
Scott was gaping, looking from her to his own lap and back. "Oh my god!"
She felt herself starting to cry. Reflexively, she turned away and curled herself into her corner of the couch. "I'm so sorry, Scott, I don't know ... what an idiot, I ..."
"Oh, Jules." The shock had softened out of his voice. She didn't have to turn around to know that he had his hand on his forehead and that look in his eyes. "Julie, please don't do this."
