God, I was losing it.
More precum beaded at my tip and dripped down over my knuckles, thick and wet, making every stroke slide easier. Ismeared it over myself like fuel, hips jerking forward until I was rutting into my own palm. My mind spun filthy, feral: storm inside, bend her over the table, tear the blouse open, fuck her whether she begged me to stop or not.
Make her scream.
Make her mine.
The thought scared me.
Terrified me.
But it turned me on even more.
I couldn’t stop.
My cock jerked harder in my fist, precum slicking my skin, the rhythm messy, desperate.
Every sway of her hips was another shove toward the edge.
Every laugh she gave the empty kitchen was another nail in my sanity.
I stumbled back from the window, cock in hand, chest heaving, delirious with lust.
I closed my eyes so I could calm myself. . .
I needed to leave.
I needed a cold shower.
I needed to stop this and—
The back door creaked open.
No!
I opened my eyes.
She was standing there in the doorway with a garbage bag sagged in her hand. It swung slightly, heavy with scraps.
For one brutal heartbeat, we just stared at each other under the porch light.
My shame burned, but my hunger burned hotter.
“Dominic. . .” Her voice cracked low, like she couldn’t decide if she should scream or whisper. “What. . .are you doing?”
Her gaze flicked down, caught on the fist still slick with my lust, then snapped back to my face. Her lips parted, shock flickering across her face before something darker took its place.
Was it lust?
Or was it pure horror?
I couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t breathe.
My cock was still out, heavy, leaking, throbbing in my grip. I didn’t bother to hide it. I let her see what she did to me, what she created in me.
Shame didn’t live here—only hunger.
