Page 14 of The House on Haven Way

This girl is built different. Wildly different than the girls I used to know.

She’s an hourglass that moves like she’s set to seduce, and for a couple of weak moments, I decide driving her away can wait.

See, I went out of the house, down to sit on my headstone and think a while.

When I came back, there she was, naked as a jaybird, walking through the kitchen with a wine glass in one hand and some hot cocoa in the other.

“What in the luxury?” I muttered to myself. Of course to myself, because my very unwanted houseguest can’t hear me. Can’t see me.

But I’m sure as hell getting an eyeful.

She leaves the bathroom door open. And hey, I made my presence known with the lights, the closet, and I know she saw me trailing out the window at least once—not that she knew it was me.

I’m trying, okay?

Shit.

Anyway, if she’s going to stroll around naked after all my attempts to communicate, so be it. If she doesn’t want privacy, why should I give it to her?

Man, I would so need to see a priest to confess this if I weren’t already headed to purgatory or something like that.

But since I’m already in this weird limbo that feels pretty hellacious, I follow her into the bathroom.

It’s hot in here. Not just the way she’s pumping out hot water like someone who never grew up with dodgy pipes in a fourth-floor walk-up in Brooklyn.

The way she almost seems to pose. I know she’s not trying to, but damn it.

She leans on one leg and binds her hair up with a big pink silk scarf. Runs her hands down her neck, head back, eyes closed. Hands go over her sides, to her back.

Her lower back and the right side of her hip have tiny little indents like shrapnel or something. Little scars that you’d have to look hard to see.

Yes, I’m looking hard. If I look right at that sweet spot where her back gets narrow and her hips get wide, then I don’t stare at the dark cinnamon colored curls between her thighs or the way her breasts hang, perfect and plump and kind of going off to the sides like the lobes of an upside-down heart. The little tip of that heart meets at her graceful, slender neck. And when I look up—her face is a heart shape, too. And those hips, that big, beautiful rhythm section— that’s another God damn heart, with a long, long taper down those smooth, coppery brown legs.

I swallow and tell myself it’s time to go. It’s time to go right now, because certain parts of me that I thought died off are resurrecting. Hard.

“Ohhhhhh. Ohhh, yeeeeeahhh,” Amber sinks into the hot water, her hair all scooped up like a lopsided pink and gold sundae, her face the picture of bliss—and her mouth opens up to let out a long, low moan of pleasure.

I ain’t never made a woman sound like that.

I’m jealous of a bathtub.

My cock is getting hard, just watching a woman get into some hot, soapy water.

And I don’t move. I sit, and I stare, and I start thinking dangerous thoughts. Thoughts like... Well, I can get all misty and vaporous. Why don’t I turn into steam and touch those big, firm-looking titties? Why don’t I turn into a sheen on that water and go sinking down between those luscious thighs, and see the sights I never got to see in my lifetime? I got cheated out of a wife, out of all the things beyond a quick fuck and fumble. Maybe a little harmless exploration is owed to me.

That’s at least ten Rosaries and forty Hail Marys right there.

And it gets worse. I still don’t move. I stay perched in the corner, a floating, half-solid shape of shadow and throbbing cock, and start to think... Well. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if she stayed.

I could crawl into her bed. I could...

Yep. Nope.

That’s the fucking limit. That’s the line. Sgt. John Antonio Guisieppi Miller didn’t survive a fucking war and kind of survive a betrayal and murder by his best friend, only to become a slimy perv.

Amber Pierce is leaving this house tonight.

September 25th, 2026