Forty-Three Seconds of Watching

The hallway was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the soft thud of my sneakers hitting the hardwood. I'd just finished a brutal session at the gym — two hours of heavy deadlifts followed by thirty minutes on the heavy bag — and my muscles were still buzzing with that warm, loose feeling that comes after you've pushed your body past its comfort zone. My sports bra was damp with sweat, my leggings clinging to my thighs, and I smelled like a mix of gym and the cedar soap I'd used in the locker room. I was heading to the bedroom to grab a towel before hitting the shower when I heard it.

A sound. Soft, rhythmic. Familiar.

I stopped mid-step, my hand hovering over the bedroom door, which was cracked open about three inches. Through the gap, I could see the edge of the bed and the lamp on the nightstand casting a warm yellow glow across the sheets. I tilted my head, listening. There it was again — that quiet, slick sound, punctuated by a slow exhale.

I pushed the door open just a little more, quietly, and looked in.

Larry was on the bed. Flat on his back, head propped slightly on a pillow, one arm bent behind his head, the other wrapped around his cock. His eyes were closed, his jaw slack, and he was stroking himself slowly — that deliberate, unhurried pace that told me he'd been at it for a while. He was still wearing his running shorts, pushed down to his thighs, and his t-shirt was rucked up over his stomach, exposing the taut lines of his abs. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and I watched the muscles in his forearm flex as he worked himself.

My stomach did that thing — that quick, electric flip that I've never been able to control around him, no matter how many years we've been together. I stood there in the doorway, still in my sweaty gym clothes, and felt the heat bloom between my legs so fast it almost made me laugh. There's something about catching someone in a private moment like that. It's not just the visual — though Larry stroking himself is a hell of a visual — it's the vulnerability of it. The way his face loses that sharp, focused expression he wears during the day and goes soft and open. The way his hips barely lift off the bed, unconsciously, chasing the feeling.

I leaned against the doorframe and crossed my arms, watching.

He hadn't noticed me yet. His thumb was sweeping over the head of his cock on each upstroke, and I could see the glisten of precum catching the lamplight. His breathing was steady but heavy, and every few strokes he'd squeeze a little tighter, and a small sound would escape his throat — barely audible, more vibration than voice.

I felt my own breath going shallow. My nipples were hard under my sports bra, pressing against the damp fabric, and I could feel that warm ache building low in my pelvis. I squeezed my thighs together, which only made it worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it.

"You started without me," I said.

His eyes snapped open. His hand froze mid-stroke, and for a split second, I watched the shock register on his face — eyebrows up, mouth slightly open, that deer-in-headlights look that would've been funny if I wasn't so turned on. Then the color rose in his cheeks, and he let out a breath that was half laugh, half groan.

"How long have you been standing there?" he asked.

"Long enough." I pushed off the doorframe and walked into the room, my sneakers squeaking softly on the floor. "Long enough to know you take your sweet time when you think no one's watching."

He laughed, but his hand was still wrapped around himself, and I could see his cock twitch at the words. He started to pull his hand away, an automatic move — that instinct to cover up, even after everything we've done — and I stopped walking.

"Don't," I said. My voice came out lower than I expected, firmer. "Don't stop."

He looked at me. I watched his throat move as he swallowed. His hand hesitated, then wrapped back around his shaft, but he didn't move it. He was waiting.

"Keep going," I said. I pulled my sneakers off and kicked them toward the closet, then walked to the foot of the bed. "I want to watch."

Something shifted in his expression. The embarrassment faded, replaced by that dark, hungry look I know so well — the one that surfaces when I take control, when I tell him exactly what I want. His jaw tightened, and his hand started moving again. Slow at first, almost cautious, like he wasn't sure I was serious.

I was very serious.

"That's it," I murmured. I climbed onto the bed, kneeling beside him, still in my sweaty gym clothes. The mattress dipped under my weight, and he adjusted, spreading his legs a little wider. His eyes were on me now, tracking my face, my body, trying to read what I was going to do next.

"Look at you," I said, and I let a small smirk pull at the corner of my mouth — the one I know drives him crazy. "You're already so hard. How long were you going at it before I got here?"

"I don't know," he said, his voice rough. "Ten minutes, maybe."

"Ten minutes." I let the words sit there, teasing. "And you didn't think to wait for me?"

"I thought you'd be at the gym longer."

"I finished early." I shifted closer, my knee pressing against his hip. I could feel the heat radiating off his body, could smell his sweat mixed with something sharper — the musk of arousal. "Lucky for me."

His hand moved faster now, a steady rhythm, his fingers wrapped tight around his shaft. I watched the head of his cock disappear into his fist and reappear, flushed and wet, on each stroke. The sound of it — that slick, intimate noise — filled the room, and I felt my own arousal pooling, hot and insistent, between my legs.

"Don't stop," I said again, and I leaned in.

I pressed my lips to his neck, just below his ear, where I know he's sensitive. I felt him shiver, felt the muscles in his shoulders tense under my mouth. I kissed him there again, slower, letting my lips drag against his skin, then opened my mouth and bit down gently on the tendon that ran from his neck to his shoulder.

"Fuck," he breathed, and his hand stuttered on his cock.

"I said don't stop." I pulled back just enough to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

"I won't." His voice was strained, and his hand resumed its pace, maybe a little faster than before. Good.

I kissed his neck again, trailing down from his ear to the hollow of his throat. I could feel his pulse hammering under my lips, fast and hard, and it sent a thrill through me that I felt all the way down to my clit. I dragged my tongue across his collarbone, tasting salt, and he let out a low groan that vibrated through his chest.

"You like this?" I murmured against his skin. "Me watching you?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

He swallowed hard, his hand still working. "I like it when you watch me."

I smiled against his neck. "I know you do."

I moved lower, pressing my mouth to his chest. His t-shirt was still bunched up, and I pushed it higher, exposing the broad plane of his pectorals. I kissed the flat muscle there, feeling it flex under my lips, then dragged my tongue across his nipple.

His hips bucked. Not a lot — just a quick, involuntary thrust upward, his cock sliding through his fist. I saw the precum drip down his knuckles, and the sight of it made my pussy clench.

"Cheryl," he said, and there was a warning in his voice. A need.

"Not yet," I told him. I looked up at his face. His eyes were half-closed, his lips parted, and that expression — that desperate, barely-holding-on expression — made me want to push him further. "You don't come until I say so."

He made a sound that was almost a whimper, and I felt a surge of heat roll through me so intense it made my thighs shake. I love this. I love the way he responds when I take charge, the way his body listens to my voice like it's the only thing in the room that matters.

I went back to his chest, kissing and licking, tracing the lines of his muscles with my mouth. I circled his other nipple with my tongue, then sucked it into my mouth, gently at first, then harder. His hand was moving faster now, the rhythm uneven, and I could hear his breathing going ragged.

"Slow down," I said, and I pressed my palm flat against his stomach. The muscles jumped under my hand. "I want to enjoy this."

"You're going to kill me," he said.

I laughed, a low sound against his skin. "Maybe. But you'll die happy."

He groaned, and I felt his stomach tighten under my hand as he forced himself to slow down. His grip loosened slightly, and the wet sound of his stroking became softer, more deliberate. I watched his cock pulse in his hand, the head dark and swollen, and I wanted to touch him so badly my fingers ached. But that wasn't the game. The game was watching. Making him perform for me.

I sat back on my heels, still beside him, and pulled my sports bra over my head. The cool air hit my damp skin, and I felt my nipples tighten even harder. Larry's eyes went straight to my breasts, and his hand tightened on his cock.

"Eyes up here," I said, and I tapped his jaw with my finger.

He looked at my face, but it was a struggle — I could see it. His gaze kept dropping to my chest, to my body, to where my leggings were stretched tight over my thighs. I reached down and ran my hand over my own breast, cupping it, rolling my nipple between my fingers. Not for him — for me. Because I was so turned on I needed some kind of contact, even my own.

"You're so fucking hot," he said, and his hand started moving faster again.

"I know," I said, and I meant it. Not in an arrogant way — in a way that said I know what I do to you, and I'm going to keep doing it.

I leaned back over him, letting my breast brush against his chest as I brought my mouth to his neck again. I kissed the spot just below his ear, then whispered, "Keep stroking. Don't you dare stop."

"I'm not," he said, and his voice was barely more than a growl.

I worked my way down his neck with my mouth — open-mouthed kisses, nibbles, the occasional drag of my teeth that made him gasp. I reached his chest again and sucked hard on the skin above his collarbone, leaving a mark that would be visible tomorrow. The thought of it — him seeing it in the mirror, remembering this — made me press my thighs together hard.

"Tell me what you're thinking about," I said between kisses.

"You." He was breathing hard now, his chest heaving. "Your mouth on me. Watching you touch yourself."

"What else?"

"Being inside you."

I smiled against his skin. "Not yet. First, I want to see you finish."

"Fuck, Cheryl."

"Come on," I murmured, and I bit down on his nipple, hard enough to make him jerk. "Show me."

His hand was moving fast now, his fist flying up and down his shaft, and the sound of it was obscene — wet and slick and rhythmic. I could see his abs clenching, his thighs tensing, his whole body winding tight. I sat up so I could watch, my eyes locked on his cock, on his hand, on the way the muscles in his forearm stood out with each stroke.

"That's it," I said, and my voice was rough. "Keep going. I want to see it."

He was close. I could tell by the way his breathing had gone shallow and fast, by the way his hips were lifting off the bed with each stroke, by the way his free hand was gripping the pillow behind his head so hard his knuckles were white. His cock was rock hard, the head flushed deep red, and precum was flowing freely now, making his hand glisten.

"Cheryl, I'm —"

"Do it," I commanded. "Come for me."

And he did. His whole body seized, his back arching off the bed, and a strangled groan tore from his throat as the first rope of cum shot from his cock and landed across his stomach. I watched, transfixed, as spurt after spurt pulsed out of him, coating his abs, running down his fingers, pooling in the hollow of his hip. His hand kept moving, slower now, milking every last drop, and his face — God, his face. That expression of pure, raw release, his eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open, every line of tension in his body released at once.

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until he exhaled and I let mine go.

I stayed there, kneeling beside him, watching him come down. His hand stilled, resting on his softening cock, and his chest rose and fell with deep, slow breaths. His eyes opened, half-lidded and dazed, and he turned his head to look at me.

"That was—" he started.

"Incredible," I finished. "You're welcome."

He laughed, a breathy, exhausted sound. "You're fully clothed. Well, mostly."

I looked down at myself — braless, still in my sweaty leggings, my hair a mess from the gym. "You're right. This is unfair."

"Very."

I swung my leg over him, straddling his waist, and felt his cum against my stomach through the thin fabric of my leggings. I didn't care. I leaned down and kissed him — properly, for the first time since I'd walked in. His mouth opened under mine, and I kissed him deep and slow, tasting him, feeling the last tremors of his orgasm shake through his body beneath me.

When I pulled back, he was looking at me with that expression — the one that's half devotion, half disbelief, like he still can't quite believe this is his life.

"Your turn," he said, and his hands came up to my hips, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of my leggings.

I smiled down at him, that smirk he knows so well. "You think you've recovered enough to handle me?"

"I'll manage."

I raised an eyebrow. "That's a bold claim for a man who just came so hard he forgot his own name."

He grinned. "Give me two minutes."

I leaned down and kissed his jaw, then his neck, then whispered in his ear: "You've got one."

His hands tightened on my hips, and I felt him twitch beneath me — already half-hard again, because that's the kind of ridiculous, athletic stamina I've come to expect from him. I rolled off and lay beside him, shimming out of my leggings while he watched with that hungry look back in his eyes.

The gym could wait. Everything could wait. Right now, the only thing that mattered was the heat between us and the fact that he had fifty-seven seconds left to make good on his promise.

He made it in forty-three.