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Damn that woman.
Damn her for being… whatever she is.
Damn her for catching my attention and refusing to leave me the fuck alone.
My mind flashes to the thought of her tits, barely covered, pushed out because she wanted me to look. I bet Knox looked. I bet Knox looked his fill. Did he fuck her against the wall? The rough stone and brick digging into her back while he thrust up into her?
No, the cut down her back was too straight for that. A solid, continuous cut, not scrapes from stone. So he used a knife or something on her. That means he had her bent over something. Her ass up, his hand in her hair, maybe.
Knox doesn’t do anything gently, so he didn’t take his time with her. He probably shoved right in, making her feel every single inch of him.
I gasp out a breath as my thoughts spiral down that path. I can imagine it, the way they must have looked. The way she must have sounded.
My cock stirs between my legs, perking up when I think about River using that filthy mouth of hers to tell Knox just how much she liked what he did.
Giving in, hoping it’ll do something to shake off this energy, I wrap my hand around my cock. I give it a squeeze, and I can feel a few traces of pleasure emanating through my body from it, a little dull and distant, but there.
I think about Knox, big and imposing, and River, slight and goading. I think about the sounds, the slap of their bodies, the way River must have moaned and arched when Knox drew a knife down her back. She definitely looked satisfied when I saw her. Pleased with what happened and pleased with herself.
My hand starts to move in fast strokes, the slickness from the shower and soap making it easier. For a half second, I think maybe it’ll work. That I’ll be able to lose myself in the feeling the way I want to.
But it doesn’t. Of course it fucking doesn’t. It hasn’t for years. My cock doesn’t go past half hard, and it softens in my hand, my erection dying along with my hopes of working this mood out naturally.
Fuck.
I snarl in fury, emotion rising in me faster than I can stamp it back down. Rage and frustration form a heady mixture, and I let go of my dick and slam my fist into the shower wall.
It hurts like hell, but I like that.
It’s grounding.
My chest heaves, and it takes a good few minutes before I can get a grip on myself. But I do it. I drag in a breath and then another. I shut off the shower and reach for the towel. By the time I’m dry and crossing back to my room to get dressed, I have more control.
Brick by brick, I rebuild the wall I keep around those feelings, sectioning them away so I can get on with my life.
