Carefully, she fitted her hand around him, closing her fingers tightly. Warm, velvety — the softness of skin that was always protected. Idly she wondered if that was what Victorian girls were going for, that sensation. She pumped, once, twice, found a rhythm. The way he moved under her hand was fascinating, so she began to experiment, twisting, rubbing her thumb or fingertips over the head, tracing her nails along the shaft.
Crying out with delight at the tentative touch of her fingers ghosting along his length, it wasn’t long at all before each twist caused him to writhe on the bed, nearly overcome with pleasure. “F-feels so much…better when it’s…someone…else…” he panted out and then bit down on his bottom lip, trying to stifle his cries as he rocked up into her hand.
Summer shivered, feeling desire burn through her body again at the way he reacted, the way he looked when he bit his lip. She didn’t stop stroking him, but she pressed upward to brush tiny kisses to his mouth, whispering, “Don’t do that, I want to do that,” and blushing hotly.