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I said nothing. I just breathed, and let her work.
Silence was worse. Or better. Without words, every stroke got louder. The slick sound of oil, the creak of the table, her breath catching every time her fingers slid up the inside of my thigh and brushed the towel.
She folded the towel higher. Then higher. Then she just took it away altogether and draped it over the stool.
I felt the cool air on my bare arse and didn’t move.
Claire made a small noise in her throat. Then her hands were on my glutes, both of them, kneading slow and deep, spreading me a little with each circle. Her thumbs slid down the crease where my arse met my thighs. She leaned over me, and this time her breasts pressed down on my back and stayed there, heavy and warm, her nipples dragging hard lines through the oil as she moved.
She was grinding against my hip. Barely, but she was. I could feel the heat of her through her scrubs.
My cock was pinned beneath me, leaking a puddle onto the sheet, throbbing every time she breathed.
“Mark,” she whispered, right by my ear. That was all. Just my name, breathless, like she was telling me a secret.
Her hand slid down between my thighs from behind, and her fingertips stroked my balls. Lightly. Once. Twice.
I was right on the edge, and she’d barely touched me.