Thank Christ I have both, especially now, as I hold my breath and all movement, afraid to make a sound that will announce my presence.
My assignment was nearly blown tonight. Pure adrenaline coursed through my veins as I watched the girl approach through the slats in the door of this cramped, cluttered closet, waiting for the moment that she caught the glint of my eyes on her. Her hand reached for the handle, and I instinctively ran a series of countermeasures that involved rope and gags and scare tactics through my mind. Things that Bentley wouldn’t want me doing just yet.
Things that, frankly, I have no interest in doing to her at all.
But her phone rang and she abandoned her task, and I was saved. Only for a short time, though, because then she stripped down to skin while I spied like a pervert, my gaze glued to her form beneath that sheet, then to her form lying above the sheet? as she worked on something in her sketchbook, the last of the day’s sunlight streaming in through the window to give me the most uninhibited view.
And now . . .
I hadn’t expected such soft, round curves on her tiny frame, but they are there, in the form of a small but tight ass that I got a good glimpse of when she leaned over for her sketchbook, and tits that stand up so well, they could be fake, but I can tell they’re not. She hid her assets well beneath that loose-fitting shirt today.
I’m doing my best to control my breathing, even as hers quickens into soft pants, and her hand begins moving more furtively, and her legs fall apart until each knee is resting against the mattress. My fingers tingle with anticipation, because I had that bubble-gum-pink wand in my hand earlier, and now she has it against herself—in herself—and it’s like my hand is right there with it. Almost.
Is she thinking about me right now? I heard everything she said; I’m guessing I’m the “hot guy” she turned away today, whom she would have made strip. That makes me smile, because there was nothing about our encounter that would suggest she’d ever give me the time of day. It sounds, though, like she doesn’t give many guys the time of day. Or at least not a lot of time. I’ll have to be careful about how I approach her. I don’t want her getting bored with me before I’ve gotten what I need.
This, I can say for sure, has never happened to me. I’m letting my mind wander as I wait, her body tempting a weaker side that I have learned to suppress until now. That has frankly never threatened to sway me during an assignment, where I hunt threats and criminals, vile human beings that the world is better off without.
I do not hunt young, attractive—albeit sharp-tongued—women who pleasure themselves in bed in front of me, who cause me to entertain thoughts of slipping out of this closet and not leaving this house. Of walking over to her bed. Of her opening her eyes and reaching for me. Of my stripping and climbing onto her, tossing that wand to the side and finishing her off with my hands, or my mouth.
Or the dick that’s pressing hard against my zipper.
But I know that reality will not match fantasy, and that is not my purpose here, so I force down my urges and chastise my dick for even veering in that direction. And yet I still don’t look away when she closes her eyes and opens her mouth and arches her back and moans out a release, even though I know that would be the respectable thing to do.
I just fucking can’t.
She simply lies there for a few minutes, those tits swelling with her deep breaths, until she calms down. Then, groping the mattress near her thighs, as if she has expended her last ounce of energy, she pulls the sheet up and over her body.
Ten minutes later, she is as still as a corpse, her breathing shallow and slow.
Easing the door open so slowly that it can’t sound a creak, I edge out of her bedroom, down the stairs, and out the front door, ensuring that I lock the dead bolt on the way.