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We all do, but I can control my desires.
Or so I think.
A moan echoes from behind the closed door, so soft and sultry, it has my hard cock jerking in my jeans. I’m at the door before I realise what I’m doing. I tell myself it’s to make sure she is okay, that she didn’t fall and hurt herself—after all, that wouldn’t look good for the ransom—but it’s a lie, and deep down, I know it.
I twist the handle and push open the door before sliding inside. Steam curls through the air like a lover’s caress, touching my skin and making me shiver, and then there she is. She’s standing under the spray with her head tilted back and her hands pressed to the wall, her curves on full display.
Our prisoner.
Genevieve.
Her high, full breasts are slick with water and soap. Her tight little rosebud nipples make my mouth water as I follow the spray down her tanned, toned stomach to her wide hips, the mound of her pussy, and down her long legs. I imagine wrapping those legs around my waist as I hammer into her. My gaze flicks back up to see her eyes still closed, her mouth slightly parted as if in pleasure.
My hand cracks on the doorknob from the force of my grip as I stare like a fucking stalker, like a fucking pervert, unable to stop myself.
I can’t force myself to leave, but I can resist throwing myself in that shower, bending that pert apple-shaped ass over, and slamming into her cunt until I fuck this hatred out. I could fuck anger out of my body.
Only just.
My mouth dries at my thoughts, and then her eyes open. Blinking, she turns her head. Her brow is furrowed in confusion—no doubt at the waft of cold air from the open door—but then she sees me. Her eyes widen, flaring in shock and then fear, yet she doesn’t try to hide her body. She doesn’t react other than staring. Our eyes are locked, neither of us knowing what to do, and then her pink tongue darts out to wet her lips. Her eyes trail down my body, undoubtedly seeing my hard cock, before they shoot back up.
They are filled with heat and desire for me.
And I’m lost.
Stumbling out of the room, my chest heaving like I’ve run a marathon, I force my back to the opposite wall, my hands shaking with the force of my lust for the woman inside. She didn’t protest, didn’t call for the others. She just stared, her eyes beckoning me closer, and I almost let her. I almost gave in.
Fuck!
It’s clear this need, this desire, won’t go away. I lie to myself, telling myself it’s because I haven’t released all this tension in too long, not even in my fist, let alone a wet and willing woman.
Yes, that has to be it.
I just need to come, and then I’ll be clear-headed. It’s better to use my hand than give in to my urges. Even though I hate it, hate the need I feel, I quickly unbuckle my jeans and free my hard, pulsing cock. Palming it as I stare at the closed door, I stroke my long length, squeezing as I get to the bottom before twisting my hand. I close my eyes with a groan, remembering the slickness of her wet skin begging for me to lick the water droplets from every inch of her.
I visualise sinking to my knees and tasting her cunt to feel her surrender and hear her screams. I want to sink into that wet heat and fuck her like a wild man. Groaning, I almost slide down the wall from the force of the pleasure spiralling through me. I pretend my hand is hers as it strokes me and that her soft voice is sighing in my ear.
She says my name, a plea.
Fuck, fuck.
The desire thunders through my body, heating my blood. My thighs almost quake from the force as my balls draw up. I’m so close to coming, so lost in my fantasies, I don’t even hear the shower flick off, but I do hear the door open, and my eyes shoot open wide.
They lock on her as she stops in the open doorway.
Shock coats her face, and then it turns to wildfire. Her lips part on a slight inhale as her eyes go to my cock. I don’t stop. I pump it harder with her standing before me in nothing but a clinging wet T-shirt. The scent of lavender from the soap she used wraps around me like a vise.
Her chest rises faster and faster, and a blush spreads across her cheeks and down her chest. I imagine the way she would flush with my cock pounding into her. I groan, the sound snapping her out of the staring contest. She hurries past me, bringing that delectable scent closer. Shivering, she stops at my side, next to her door, and turns to look at me. There is a mocking, lust filled smile on her lips.
“Don’t let me stop you,” she teases, yet her voice is husky with need, despite how hard she pretends she’s unaffected.
“I didn’t plan to,” I snarl, daring her to look away, to flee. With my eyes on hers, I tighten my grip on my cock and pump, dropping my gaze to her little nipples, which pebble against the wet material of her shirt, and I finally let go, releasing my hold on my desire. It slams through me like a train, wringing a grunt from me as I pump my cock. My release squirts across the floor and opposite wall. It leaves me weak, feeling as though cold water splashed my body, as the hatred douses the flames I fanned. I quickly tuck my cock away, and without a word, I turn and flee.
That’s what I’m doing, after all. I’m fleeing, yet at the top of the stairs, I look back to see her staring after me with need written in every line of her face.
In the next heartbeat, she slips into the room, slamming the door as if it will keep me out—as if she’s trying to keep the desire out.
I am the demon waiting in the hallway, ready to claim it all, and I would have if she asked, if she carried on looking at me like she was imagining what I’d feel like inside her.
What I’d taste like.
Fuck.
What did I just do?
