I honestly cannot thank you enough for your fantastic feedback. I've never thought you'd like this verse so much. You're all so nice and kind and just plain lovely, and it puts such a smile on my face it won't go away for hours afterwards. Thank you so much, once again, and boy do I hope I won't disappoint you with this one.
If you go to my profile page, there's a wee tiny extra, which is available on my tumblr: Anonymour wondered what Belle thinks about our Mr Gold. You can check it out.
This part is rated M. Never written a wanking ficlet before, not even in my native language so.. yeah. Enjoy? :)
He closes his shop earlier that evening, determined to finally do what has to be done. He's gonna behave like the man that he is and tackle the pressing issue.
Meaning, he's gonna jerk off.
He shudders at the thought, disgusted with himself. The happiness of healthy responses to Miss French has been replaced with distaste. His own body's betraying him again. First the bloody ankle, now… his manhood.
Gold's mood is getting worse and worse.
When gets home and enters his bedroom, he doesn't quite know how to go about… all of this.
For a moment, he's considering not giving in to these urges. Again. It's been almost three weeks since the dreams started, since she started. Surely, he can suppress his silly lust.
The tingling he feels below his belt tells him otherwise.
Sighing, he shrugs off his jacket and loosens his tie.
"Damn her," he mutters. Deciding against hopping into the shower, he lies down on the bed and closes his eyes.
This should not be that hard.
Men supposedly wank all the time. This should be natural.
Why does he feel so awkward, then?
Tentatively, his hand unbuttons his trousers and slips beneath his boxer briefs. He's half-hard already; has been for quite some time.
Few hours, give or take. No wonder he's so bloody annoyed.
A gasp leaves him when his hand first brushes against his shaft. How long has it been since he last pleasured himself? He honestly cannot remember. With Milah he completely lost interest in this aspect of life; Belle seems to have awaken it again.
After a few experimental strokes, instincts do kick in. Soon he's fisting the sheets, trying to hold still as he pumps himself. It's not difficult to get lost in the fantasy – his mind has been supplying him with images of Belle in all kinds of situations. Mostly, the kinky ones.
He grips his cock more firmly.
He can picture her in one of her damn circle skirts and wearing insane heels, smiling sultry at him as she touches him. She would whisper all sort of naughty things into his ear and she would wrap her delicate fingers around him and he'd moan her name, just like he's doing now, and she'd be so pleased to hear it.
And when he'd touch her, when he'd slide her knickers to the side and really touch her, she'd be so wet for him, all for him, and only for him.
The orgasm takes him by surprise.
His back arches from the bed and his breath catches in his throat.
It's never been like that before.
He's never felt such powerful waves of ridiculous heat racing through his body, he's never felt so alive, the pleasure has never been so blinding.
His heart is pounding in his chest and his suit is ruined and he probably should care but he cannot bring himself to.
Miss French just made him come like no one has before and he wonders how he is ever going to face her again.
As if the dreams didn't leave him breathless enough.
