Slowly.
Weirdly calm.
Like some part of me has been waiting for this.
I glance down.
My stupid, traitorous body tells the truth before my mind does: I’m still fucking hard.
Of course I am.
I squeeze my eyes shut and laugh quietly—shaky, breathless, hysterical.
Because wow. Yes. Obviously.
If there was a checklist of “men I’d fall for,” that guy checked all of them.
Tall?
Check.
Built like he could lift me with one hand?
Check.
A low, gravelly voice that could ruin me?
Triple check.
An insanely huge cock, that he definitely knows how to use?
Check. Check. Check.
I bet his voice is even hotter when he’s giving out orders.
Or hear him calling me “a good boy” with that voice of his.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Just thinking about that, well, obviously, it made me even harder, to the point I’m starting to think that my dick will actually explode if I don’t fix this issue. Like right this second.
God, I’m a disaster.
I push myself off the floor, legs trembling, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I should pull myself together—look normal, to go and see if the house looks okay and if my stalker is also a thief and might’ve stolen something from the house, I should do something—but I don’t have the energy or the dignity left for that.
And honestly, I don’t have the will power or actual interest of seeing if that man is still in the house, or he left, immediatelyafter he chased me through this enormous house and then possessively used my mouth as his personal walking and talking flashlight.
And then he just left.
Fuck. Mentally I wasn’t in the state to think about what the fuck actually has happened right now.
I need a shower.
A long, hot one.
Steamy.
Steamy because of the temperature, not for… anyotherreasons.
