Page 14 of Heartstrings & Horseshoes

This morning’s no exception. In fact, it’s imperative I get off because my bathroom’s filled with her signature vanilla and jasmine, clouding my brain with lust. I must be a masochist because I use some of the offending body wash and slowly work myself.

I’m usually forced to be quick, but this morning, I take my time. She’ll expect me to take a long shower after my shift, so my extended absence won’t be suspicious.

My plan for a leisurely orgasm is thwarted by the image of her naked body dripping beneath the shower spray as she runs her soft hands all over her luscious form, and I come in long spurts onto the shower floor.

Holy shit. The wall supports me so I don’t collapse from my premature release. I finish my shower efficiently with no reason to linger.

Getting dressed, I can’t explain the possessive pride that puffs my chest having all Delilah’s belongings blend with mine so seamlessly.

Like she’s meant to live here. Like she’s meant to be mine.

Calmer, after my shower-fun-time, I snag my girl for breakfast.

“Let’s go get you fed, doll.”

7

Idon’t survive one week living with Delilah before my resolve breaks.

She’s been skittish all morning, hovering in the living room, compulsively checking her phone, jumping at every sound beyond the front door.

I hope her shower helps her relax because I don’t have the willpower today to give her a friendly shoulder massage without cracking.

Someone knocks on the front door. A loud crash in the bathroom follows and I shout, “You okay?” as I walk to answer the door.

Delilah comes barreling out of the bedroom in only a bath towel frantically shouting, “I’ll get it!”

“No way in hell you’re answering the door in a towel.” I reach for the door handle, and she digs a knuckle into my ribs. “Ow! What the fuck?”

She shrieks, “I said I’d get it!”

Yea, that isn’t happening. I block her from grabbing the door handle and stiff-arm her while I accept the package from the delivery person who’s eyeing me like I’m certifiable.

I’ve barely pulled my arm back through the cracked door when Delilah yanks the package from my hand.

“What’s gotten into you this morning?” My chuckle is equal parts amused and confused.

Her heaving chest tests the limits of her wrapped towel. She has one arm braced against her breasts, pinning the towel closed, and the package-thieving arm pressed against the parted towel at her thighs.

My gulp must be audible.

She’s so fucking beautiful—flushed and glistening from her shower and our wrestling match with the door.

Her hair’s dripping wet, lips parted from exertion, sending blood rushing to my dick.

Her sun necklace dips into her cleavage, pushed up from holding the towel so tight.

I thought Delilah was the prettiest girl in the world at just eight-years-old. That fact remains, though my attraction now is far from innocent. I’ve watched her grow from a little doll to a scrawny kid, to a lanky pre-teen.

Then puberty hit. Hormones are relentless motherfuckers.

In a cruel twist of fate, Delilah matured into a fucking bombshell at the same time I became intimately acquainted with my dick.

I’ve seen Delilah in everything from full snow gear down to a string bikini.

I’d take her in anything, or nothing, every day and twice on Sunday.

My spank-bank is always well stocked from the tight-as-sin jeans she wears, and dresses that skim the tops of her thighs right below her ass cheeks.