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“Come on. Let’s get all this upstairs. I’ll show you to the guest room.”
There are a thousand things I want to say, I want to ask. But I can’t bring myself to press too hard, especially when he’s doing me such a massive favor by letting me stay.
Chapter Eight
Zack
I sit on the edge of my bed with my hands clasped together, my cock so hard it feels like it’s going to explode out of my pants. After getting Zoey settled in the guest room, I had to say goodnight before I lost control and leaped on her.
I keep trying to remind myself of how Jerry predatorily advanced on her, telling myself that she’ll react with shock and disgust if I do what amounts to the same thing.
But…
Fuck.
How am I supposed to fight this feeling?
She’s a twenty year old curvy goddess, with gorgeous round and plump breasts, with legs so thick and bountiful I almost claimed her tight young slit in the car when I had my hand on her thigh. I was sure I heard her whimper quietly when I squeezed onto her leg, sure there was some tension moving through her.
But what if I’m misreading the signs?
I’ve never felt anything even close to this for a woman before, a scorching heat that claims me with primal passion, that sets every inch of me alight in my need to possess her.
I hear her moving around in the next room, maybe setting up her painting supplies, maybe just getting settled for the evening.
My cock gives a pulse when I think about her changing out of her waitress’s uniform and into some short pajama bottoms, showing her creamy legs, and maybe a tank top without a bra…
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The thought of her nipples turning hard and showing through the fabric makes my balls feel like they’re swelling to twice, no three times their regular size.
My seed pulses and my length grows even more, as though it’s trying to make me erupt right now.
I stand without giving myself time to think about it, moving over to the wall and pressing my ear against it. I can hear her breathing through the wall, high-pitched, full of something I can’t read.
My predator’s mind tells me it’s lust making her breathe so enticingly, that she’s next door as consumed with desire as I am, that she’s just waiting for me to charge in there and make her mine.
I close my eyes and imagine her bent over the edge of the bed in those pajama bottoms I hope she’s wearing. I imagine walking up behind her and pulling her shorts down, revealing her pink panties, a spot of wetness telling me how soaked her hole already is.
Groaning, I grab my throbbing dick over my pants, letting out a feral growl when the tension threatens to drive me crazy. I’m only a few moments away from pulling out my massive cock and stroking it up and down furiously, spreading precome over my length as I fill my mind with fantasies of Zoey.
I bet her twenty year old slit would get soaked if I gave her clit all the greedy attention it deserves if I palmed her breasts and then freed them, squeezing them together as I sucked one nipple and then the other.
I force my hand to release my manhood before I get carried away, but then…
Am I hearing things?
I move closer to the wall, silencing my breathing the same way I did overseas when on covert ops.
No, I’m not imagining it. She’s moaning next door.
Quietly, as though she doesn’t want me to hear, but she’s moaning all the same. I can hear her little whimpers as they fill the room and filter through to me.
After all, that’s happened tonight, is my horny young thing really touching herself? I can’t imagine why she’d be doing that unless she’s as consumed with this new and exciting desire as I am.
I press my ear even closer, closer, until I know I’m not making a mistake. Her moans flutter through the air and come to me like little arrows of promise, telling me this is real.
Right now, my young hot-as-fuck woman has her hands between her legs, pressing down on her creamy soaked slit.
She lets out another whimper, slightly louder than the others, and then suddenly cuts off as if she’s just realized how much noise she’s making. I can’t hear anything else now, but that doesn’t mean she’s stopped. She might have buried her face in a pillow to stifle her moans.
It doesn’t matter.
I need to see, to feel, to taste.
Moving quietly, I make for the bedroom door, walking with the same care I used when on a mission. I can’t risk acting upon my flaming desire before I know with complete certainty I’m not imagining her whimpers.
But even if I get that confirmation, how do I know she’s touching herself to thoughts of me?
