“It’s good work,” I tell her. “Stylish. And the lighting is… good.”
Her cheeks flush even more. Naïve and fucking beautiful. Ready for me to corrupt, even if I’ve sometimes told myself lies about being a better man.
“I saw you before,” she says, ignoring the compliment. “In one of my wedding assignment photos from last week.”
I shrug, not wanting to outright lie to her.
She makes a huffing noise. It goes straight to my base. Triggers a devilish thought.
I imagine that huff as a sexual moan.Hermoan, when I thumb her nipples, spit on her big tits, then slide my huge cock between them. Pump my hips faster tit-fucking her until she’s whimpering my name and begging me to savage her soppy slit with the same intensity.
“Are you saying it’s a coincidence?” she demands.
“Stranger coincidences have happened,” I say, retrieving my thoughts from the depths of my own hellish imagination. “How long have you been a photographer?”
She bites her lip.
In my head, she’s on her back, naked, flushed, bouncing. Biting her lip as I fuck another orgasm into her, and her pussy makes beautiful, squelching, filthy wet noises as I stretch her in every direction.
“Have we met before?” she asks, ignoring my question.
I shake my head slowly.
“Well, coincidence or not … you probably shouldn’t stare.”
She spins on her heels. Walks away from me across the street. I lean against the wall, trying not to go full monster as her ass swings side to side in those leggings. Big hips tempting me. What a sight. I chomp on my tongue and swallow hard. Thinking.
I could fall to my knees before her. Tear down those leggings. Kiss, bite and slap her ass, make her red, and teasingly avoid her naughty, soppy hole until her juices ooze down her inner thighs. Then shove my tongue into her to see how excited and needy she tastes. I bet she’s fucking tangy. I just know she’d grind back into my face. Wanting more.
She glancesat me over her shoulder. Eyebrows raised cutely as if to say,Still staring, huh?She’s torn, no mistake about it. Not sure if she should be enjoying the attention of a staring, older stranger. A stranger whose danger she doesn’t really know. Doesn’t fully appreciate, yet.
I resist the urge to reach down, palm my thick steel over my jeans, and rub until I start leaking precum.
She gets into her beat-up car as I take out a toothpick. Chew it and move it around my mouth to distract myself. Yep, to me, healthier than a cigarette, cooler than a vape.
Her car starts … then coughs up a cloud of black smoke, splutters, and fails. She leans forward and rests her forehead against the wheel.
She looks tired. Like she’s been through too much lately. This, a final straw to heap on top of everything else. Which is true. And which, of course, is my fault. Even if it’s more complicated than she knows.
I walk across the street. She rises from the car. Every movement makes her shake. She’s so damn lively, her flushing cheeks, the sass in her eyes, the naïvety and the fuck-me energy she’s not even aware she’s putting out. Her heartbreak is palpable, too.
“Let me help.”
“Why?” she demands.
It’s the least I can do after killing your old man.
“Because you need it, Mara.”
Taken aback, suddenly. “How do you know my name?”
She shrugs. Folds her arms. Fuck. The movement pushes the gorgeous globes of her tits together. I wonder what shape her nipples are. Big areolas, small little peaks, or small-on-small, or big-on-big? Whatever shape, I’d tease them, make them hard. Suck them and then bite down on her whole fleshy tit softly, but enough to see a mark. A tattoo of ownership.
I look broodingly at her. “It said ‘Mara’ on that photo. Must be you.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she murmurs, shifting on the spot.
Her thick legs rub together. Dangerous little thing, it’s like she’s feeling friction, like she wants a release even if she can’t outright acknowledge it.
