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And then she makes another noise, and now I wonder what she’s doing in there. Is she touching herself? Is she, too, remembering what it’s like to be naked together?
I groan in frustration, roll to my back, and give in. My hand feels nothing like hers on my shaft, but if that’s all I got, at least I can imagine it’s her hand on me.
There’s another noise from the shower, and I lose control. I stroke myself, thinking of her silky skin, her soft tits, and most of all the sweet heat of her pussy, wide open and soaking wet for me. It doesn’t take long before I’m shooting a wad onto my own stomach, groaning her name out loud, and wishing with all my heart that we were fucking for real.
Hell, that we were still married for real.
I clean up my mess, then toss on some old gray sweatpants and make my way downstairs for the bottle of Irish whiskey I bought at Dogwood Distillery a few months ago. I won’t be able to sleep tonight without it.
I know this house so well that I don’t need light to find my way around it. I go to the kitchen and pour a couple of fingers into a glass, then sit at the kitchen table to savor it and plot more ways to get Flora back. I’m deep into a fantasy of finding her in the bathtub and giving her an all-over massage when I hear footsteps.
“I think it was down here,” she whispers, coming into the kitchen in a thin pink nightgown. Even in the dark, I can see her silhouette—her firm breasts shifting under the material, her glorious hips swinging. “Aunt Zee, did you resort to buying alcohol?”
“Looking for this?” I say softly, hefting the bottle of whiskey.
Flora shrieks, stopping in the middle of the kitchen floor.
I get up and turn on the light over the stove. “Can’t sleep?”
She shakes her head, still breathing hard. It makes her tits rise and fall alluringly. “I thought a dram might help.” Her hazel eyes are wide.
Lord help me, but my eyes are drawn to the shape of her body, and my dick rises of its own will. “Here,” I say, and get out a shot glass to pour her drink. I hand it to her.
Her eyes are still wide, and I can see that she’s looking at the shape of my body, too. More blood flows to my groin, and I might have to adjust myself in these sweatpants in another minute. Then she tosses the whiskey back, gasping as it hits her stomach. “Whoa.”
“Bad dream?” I ask, leaning against the counter.
She drags her eyes up from my crotch. “Um. No. No, I just couldn’t settle down. Couldn’t relax.”
I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be going slow.
Fuck that shit.
“Not even after rubbing one out in the shower?” I ask her in a soft, curious voice.
She gasps again. “You…you pervert!”
“I know those noises, Flora,” I remind her. “You got me so hard, thinking about you.”
She shivers, and her nipples grow even more prominent. “Stop it, Ev. Stop.”
“I think you want me.”
She shivers again. Oh yes, she does want me.
“That won’t fix anything,” she says in an anguished voice. “Sure, we always got along fine in bed. But that’s just sex.”
It’s not just sex. “Oh yeah?” I say lightly. “Well, let’s go do it if it doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’m not going to bed with you,” she says, and backs up a step.
I lean over and press on the kitchen table with my hands, testing its strength. “Table would do.”
She inhales. “I’m leaving. I mean I’m going to bed. Upstairs. Alone.”
“So you can imagine fucking me, instead of getting the real thing?” I ask.
Oh, I am a diabolical bastard.
