Fuck, I'm wound tight.
I brace one hand against the bathroom wall and start stroking, slow at first, but that lasts about three seconds before I'm pumping fast and rough, chasing the release I should have had an hour ago.
I close my eyes and she's there immediately. Those amber eyes looking up at me. Those dimples. That incredible body pressed against mine on the dance floor, her breasts soft and full against my chest.
My hand moves faster.
I remember her moans, breathy and desperate and so fucking genuine. The way she gasped when I first pushed my fingers inside her. The way her thighs trembled. The way she got so wet for me that I could hear it, could feel it dripping down my hand.
"Fuck," I groan, my hips thrusting into my fist.
I think about what almost happened. What should have happened. Me bending her over in that stall, pulling her panties down completely, freeing my cock and sliding into that tight, hot pussy. Feeling her clench around me the way she clenched around my fingers. Watching her ass bounce as I pounded into her.
My balls tighten, orgasm building fast and hard.
I imagine her breasts. The ones I saw beneath her dress, the ones I felt pressed against me but never got to touch. I picture pulling her dress down, exposing them, taking those nipples into my mouth while I fucked her. Hearing her scream my name, which only reminds me I don't even know her name, and that makes everything hotter somehow.
A mystery woman. A stranger. Someone I might never see again but will definitely never forget.
I'm so close now, my whole body tensing, my hand a blur on my cock. I think about her face when she almost came. That moment right before release when everything goes soft and desperate and beautiful.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I chant, and then I'm coming, hard spurts hitting the bathroom wall as my orgasm tears through me. It goes on and on, my body jerking with each wave, and I can't stop picturing her. Can't stop imagining it was her pussy I was filling instead of my own hand.
Finally, it ends. I'm left panting against the wall, covered in sweat, my cock still twitching with aftershocks.
And I'm still thinking about her.
The girl with no name. The one who got away.
"Goddammit," I mutter to the empty bathroom.
Because Boone was wrong about one thing. This isn't a good sign. This is a problem. I don't think about women after they leave. I don't jerk off to memories of almost-encounters. I definitely don't stand in my bathroom wishing I'd handled things differently.
But here I am, doing all of those things.
I clean up, brush my teeth, and drag myself to bed. But even as I'm lying there staring at the ceiling, I can still feel her. Can still smell her. Can still hear that breathy moan in my ear.
And I know, absolutely know, that if I see her again, I'm not letting her run a second time.
Chapter 3 - Harper
I barely make it back to my motel room before the shaking starts.
My hands tremble as I unlock the door, and I practically fall inside, slamming it behind me and leaning against it like something's chasing me. Which is stupid because nothing is. No one followed me. The stranger—I don't even know his name—respected my boundary and let me go.
But I can still feel him. His fingers inside me. His breath on my neck. His voice in my ear telling me to be quiet, to stay very quiet, while he continued to work me into a frenzy with someone just feet away.
"Fuck," I breathe, pressing my palms against my flushed cheeks.
I'm still dripping. I can feel the wetness between my thighs, soaking through my panties, making every step uncomfortable. My body is wound so tight I might actually vibrate out of my skin, and all I can think about is how close I was. How close he got me before I panicked and ran.
I need to finish what he started.
The thought makes me feel pathetic. Running home to touch myself like some desperate teenager, but I don't care. I can't care. Because if I don't come soon, I'm going to lose my mind.
I kick off my shoes and practically rip my dress over my head, tossing it onto the cheap motel chair.
Deep breath. Focus.
