As my own breathing starts to struggle, hers picks up. Her chest heaves, caving in and then pushing back out, and my lips tingle with the desire coursing through me.
It’d be so fucking easy to march over and draw the taut peaks of her tits between my lips. To draw out her pleasure, test her tolerance for pain by sinking my teeth into the puckered flesh.
Gripping the counter with as much force as possible, I keep myself in place, unwilling to reveal my presence before I know what I want to do with her.
My father wants me to expose her. Bring her back to the land of the living and prove myself to those who doubted me.
Technically, I want that too.
But I also think I deserve a little fun along the way, all things considered.
So, I remain still, cock leaking on my thigh as I watch Riley bring herself to orgasm; I can’t see all of her face from this vantage point, but I see her forehead wrinkle as she gurgles in delight, arching her back against the tub tile.
Goddamn. I’m feverish, bearing witness to divinity.
My jaw clenches so tight that stars dance around the edges of my vision.
The toy must be new, because I’ve never heard the sounds coming from her throat before. Not behind a closed door, anyway.
A fleeting thought flashes through my mind, and I wonder if the guy with her on the boardwalk gifted it to her.
If he’s used it on her.
Fury scorches a path across my chest, crimson splashing behind my eyes every time I blink. As she comes off her high, Riley disables the vibrator and goes limp in the tub, running a hand through her hair.
I’m stuck in place when she finally stands, reaching for a towel hanging on the wall, back facing me.
My throat constricts as she rises, droplets of water dripping over the curve of her perfect ass.
Memory and screens do not do her justice.
Annoyance heats the base of my spine, clearing the fog of lust as it coasts through my brain. I dip out the door before she can turn around, knowing the next part of her routine gives me a couple of minutes to disappear into the shadows again, my malicious presence unbeknownst to her.
The bedside lamp doesn’t illuminate the entire room, so I slink into a darkened corner by the dresser, willing my dick to go down.
Pressing myself into the wall, I try to think of anything else. My parents, the lake outside, my fifth grade social studies project on the Declaration of Independence.
All I see is her fucking face.
A subdued noise of frustration puffs from my nostrils, and I move my hands to my jeans. It’s a shit idea, possibly the worst I’ve ever had, but right now my only thought is relief.
Relief of the guilt her beauty fills me with when she should be the one repenting.
Of not being able to create, because she’s still got her claws latched into my brain, my lungs, and my soul.
Three years I’ve spent living and breathing her. Imagining the moment I’d be able to reclaim my focus.
Denying myself because of the way she dominates my thoughts.
But no more.
With shaky fingers, I drag my zipper down and wrench my cock from my boxers. It’s hot to the touch, and I swipe my thumb along the tip, spreading the bead of precum bubbling there.
Releasing a harsh breath, I close my eyes and inhale, stroking up my shaft once.
Twice.
My movements are stilted, uneven as I lean to listen for her departure from the bathroom. The sink turns on, and a strangled moan escapes me as I begin pumping harder.
Palming the top of her dresser, I blow out a breath, sweat forming at my hairline. As a drop glides down the bridge of my nose, I’m reminded of her in the bathtub, body shimmering with the evidence of her exertion, and my balls draw up tight.
I envision her face, mouth parted in shock and eyes wide, if she were to come out before I’m finished.
The idea of her catching me like this, draining myself dry to the image of her doing the same, spurs me on. I’m panting, hips bucking against the air, my climax so close I can taste it in my throat, when I realize I don’t have anywhere for it to go.
Swallowing hard, I slow my strokes without ceasing completely, glancing at the wooden surface in front of me. I could use a pair of panties stuffed in my pocket, but then I’d have to leave it for her to find in order to send a message, and I don’t want to do that.
But I’m not leaving without letting her know that I’m here.
A bottle sitting in my line of sight captures my attention, and I lean in, squinting hard to see the label.
Something sinister weasels through my gut, weaving its way between my ribs until it’s practically one with my being. Satisfaction, sick and deranged, courses through my bloodstream, and I reach forward to unscrew the lid.
Gripping the bottle in my free hand, I position it beneath the slit in my crown, resuming the languid strokes from before.
My toes curl inside my boots, my spine liquefying, as thick ropes of cum spurt from me like a hot spring. It dribbles into the lotion, musk mixing with the smell of Christmas, and I come close to blacking out from the pleasure it gives me.
Inside the bathroom, the sink shuts off, and I fumble to put myself back together. Screwing the lid on tight, I give it a little shake, my pulse skyrocketing.
Perverse contentment rains over me, and I set the bottle back where it belongs, slipping from her bedroom before she can come out.
When I’m back at my temporary residence, I set up my usual watching post at the window, propping my feet on the sill with my bass in my lap.
And as her silhouette gets dressed and ready for bed, smoothing what I imagine is my vile concoction on her body, I write an opening verse for the first time in three years.
21
“I’m just saying, I don’t know where they could’ve possibly gone.”
Crouching on my hands and knees, I sweep underneath my dresser, searching for what I already know isn’t there.