She does. My good girl sucks me hard until I see stars, and then stands, her fingers playing with her clit because she’s too turned on to stop.
“Does that feel good?”
She lifts her leg to my hip and leans back against the wall to show me as she touches herself. Her pussy is so pretty. So pinkand wet and warm. I lick my lips, line my cock up with her opening, and thrust in her as hard as I can. Because that’s what she wants. My cock. Me to fuck her. No one else.
“Oh god!” she cries out, and I pump faster into her as I fuck my hand harder.
“Don’t stop rubbing your clit. I want you to come on my cock. I’m so close. I can’t stop. I can’t hold back.”
And I can’t. I’m right at the edge, and I fuck her and fuck her and fuck her. Feeling how tight she is. Listening to how she moans and begs for me to take her harder, deeper, anyway I want. Her body arches, and her eyes stay on mine, and then she’s coming. So. Fucking. Hard.
And so am I. I explode, spurts of cum shooting all over my hand and the wall while I shove my face into my arm to muffle my curses and yells, and God help me, even her name. When I’m done, I collapse against the wall, breathing hard with my heart pounding in my chest.
Dammit!
I push away from the wall, angry and frustrated. I get myself cleaned up, rationalizing that it was just a release. Just a way to blow off steam. That she’s the only woman in my life at present so it’s natural that I thought of her. I convince myself of it. And when I get in bed to go to sleep, I don’t allow her to cross my mind.
That is, until morning comes.
The digital clock on the nightstand reads 4:59. My alarm will go off in exactly one minute, and no matter how much or how little sleep I get, I always wake before it. Another night of fractured sleep behind me, and I groan, reaching for my phone to shut off my alarm so I don’t have to deal with that. I’m cloudy, my thoughts feeling like they’re wrapped in cotton, fuzzy and indistinct. I’m still not used to the time change.
Today is going to feel like running a gauntlet. Zoey’s first day at preschool, starting at the hospital this morning, thesmattering of unpacked boxes lining the hallway, and the woman in the bedroom next to mine, whom I can’t quite figure out.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit here for a moment, letting the fogginess pass. I scrub my hands up and down my face, use the bathroom, get myself dressed and ready to run into work, and then go to wake up Zoey, but as I step into the hall, I hear noise in the bathroom. I strain my ears, trying to determine why Zoey is already up. She’s been waking earlier since the move, wanting to be with me in the morning.
Micha’s house is too big for just him, which is why he offered it to us while he’s overseas with Doctors Without Borders. “Two years minimum in Sudan,” he’d said. “The place will just sit empty otherwise. You’d be doing me a favor, keeping it lived in.” As if he weren’t the one doing me the favor.
What he failed to mention was that his sister had already moved in six weeks prior.
A thump from the bathroom breaks my reverie, followed by what sounds like a child’s voice singing and the faucet turning on. Zoey must be up. I guess that’s good. I don’t have to drag her out of bed.
“Zoey? You getting ready?” I call softly, twisting the knob on the door to open it without waiting for a response. “Let me help you with?—”
The words die in my throat.
It’s not Zoey.
Skylar stands there, one hand clutching a white towel around her body, the other frozen in the act of wiping steam from the mirror. Her hair is slick and gold against her neck as water droplets trail down her shoulders, collarbones, and ample cleavage before disappearing beneath the edge of the towel. She looks like she did in my fantasy last night.
But it gets worse. The towel is small. Even for Skylar, who is short. The thing cuts off at her upper thighs, which are curvyand wet like the rest of her—fuck, did I actually just think that?—and smooth, and Jesus, I’m already sweating, and my heart is pounding, and I haven’t even started my run yet.
For one excruciating moment, we stare at each other, my hand still on the doorknob, her eyes wide with shock. My dick is growing hard in my track pants, and these bastards are thin and won’t hide much. Thankfully, her hateful eyes are glued to my face.
“What the hell?” she finally sputters, clutching the towel tighter. “Get out!”
I backpedal so fast I nearly trip over my own feet. “Sorry! I thought you were—I swear I heard—Zoey sometimes—” My brain short-circuits, unable to form a coherent sentence while the image of her wet skin burns itself into my retinas and, unfortunately, my memory.
“Ever heard of knocking?” Skylar’s voice rises, her free hand groping for something on the counter before she comes up with a hairbrush, which she brandishes at me like a weapon.
“The door was unlocked!” I protest, finding my voice again. “Who doesn’t lock the bathroom door?”
“Someone who was used to living alone. If this weren’t Micha’s house, I would have taken the master from the start. You’re lucky I closed the door in the first place. I didn’t think about it. It was a habit.”
“You seriously have a problem with locking bathroom doors. This is the second time I’ve walked in on you like…” I trail off.
“Like what?” she challenges.
My eyes narrow. “You know.”
