I want to find out. Want to bend her over and take my time, see exactly how much she can take. See if she'd break… or beg me for more.
I do a mental list of everything I know about her.
She gets nervous in crowds and in unfamiliar settings, and sometimes she flinches when the lights are too bright or the sounds are too loud.
Will she be as timid in bed?
Is she a virgin?
Two fuckin’ months. Eight more weeks.
Less than sixty days until my life as I know it will be over.
I scrub shampoo through my hair, then rub a bar of soap over myself and a washcloth. Wash up.
I’m frustrated,blood’s up, and I want something to relieve my pain. Feels like it did when I was in prison—too much testosterone, too little to do. Not enough freedom.
I fist my thick cock and stroke it, chasing something, anything, that’ll get me out of my head. And my mind lands on… Erin.
Kneeling on her knees in front of me. There’s something about that look in her eyes that makes me fucking ferocious.
I want toruinher.
I want to feel that pretty, smarmy mouth of hers around my cock.
I imagine how she’d look after a good session at The Craic. Her eyes blown wide. Her body trembling. Her arousal dripping between her legs.
I want to teach her to mind her manners. How to be a good girl.
I stroke harder, faster. Imagine her sprawled on the bed, tits down, ass in the air, marked with my belt, my teeth, my hand. Imagine her slick pussy waiting for me, and I collide right into it. I imagine pumping in and out.
I fuck my hand until I come with a growl locked behind my teeth.
I’ll teach her, like I’ll teach her everything else—how to kneel. How to spread her legs when I eat her out. How to do what she’s fucking told and respect her husband.
I clean off, and water scalds the back of my neck. Steam fogs the mirror. I turn off the water, dry off, and wrap the towel around my waist. Then I check my phone.
Stillno fucking text from Erin.
Why the fuck do I care?
She’snothingto me, and yet… she knows how to get under my skin, and I hate that. Makes me feel young again in the worst goddamn way—back when I was some pissed-off teenager with a chip on his shoulder and something toprove.
She made me feel small. Weak. Stupid.
She’d push her glasses up that stuck-up nose and say shite likeThat’s not how it’s done,in that clipped, condescending voice that made me want to throw a desk across the room.
I’m gonna tell on you.
She used to clutch her books like a goddamn shield. Always watching. Always judging. The thorn in my side.
I remember that day in the hallway—my friends holding the bathroom door shut while she screamed behind it. Pounding. Crying for someone to help her—the one day I felt a spark of sympathy.
When she finally got out, red-faced and shaking, she pointed right at me.
Blamedme.
And I let her.
