Yes. Yes.This.
That last image is what I need to make myself come. My release tears through me so hard my vision blacks out. Cum spatters my hand, streaks my stomach, stains me with proof of what she does to me.
My chest heaves as I wipe my hand with the crumpled tissue in my jeans.
I should feel sated. Clearheaded. At least able to string two thoughts together.
I can’t.
She’s still here, so close, shifting on her bed, then rocking her knees from side to side, her body moving like it’s tempting me.
I tell myself I won’t get hard again.
But I do. Instantly.
My fucking God. She’ll be the death of me.
The last nail in my coffin.
My proverbial coffin, since I don’t plan on dying anytime soon.
I’m not going any-fucking-where.
8
SKYLAR
Usually, reading soothes me.
Whether it’s fiction or non-fiction, when I get sucked into a book, it’s like taking a much-needed break from the outside world.
That was what I banked on when I cracked open the murder mystery novel I packed for this trip.
The book’s premise was great. The two chapters I read at home were captivating.
But when I was reading it in the Colberts’ guest room, my heart wasn’t in it.
The words blurred on the pages as doubts and desires spiraled out of control. As I considered this place and this family repeatedly.
My gift, I thought about it more than anything else.
These thoughts haven’t left me the entire time I’ve been waiting for everyone to fall asleep. They’re constantly playing over in my head, bothering me. Consuming me.
Ever since I stepped into this town, I haven’t been able to make sense of anything.
Curiosity has transformed into doubt. Heat tangles with unease.
My skin hasn’t stopped prickling even once. Lead lines my stomach, but there are butterflies fluttering in there too.
And this room, it’s not what you’d call small, but I can’t help feeling like it’s slowly closing in on me.
It’s like the walls are whispering.
Like I’m being watched. Again.
Which is silly. Walls can’t talk. They don’t move.
They simply…are.
