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The scenario has played out in my brain over a dozen times by now.
My dick is so heavy it hurts. I rub it through my jeans, then think of Kat stroking it, then think of touching her, and my dick throbs with the need for release.
It’s been over two hours since I sent Kat to bed. Considering the medication strength Doc gave her, she should be asleep right now.
I leave the office with a drink in my hand, walk to my bedroom, and turn toward the bathroom.
She won’t hear the water. I strip and step into the shower, my hard dick bobbing in the air like the wand of a traffic controller.
I wrap my hand around it and pump slowly, feeling relief at the touch.
Knowing the wild thing is behind the gray walls, almost naked in my bed, creates the tension that spreads down to my balls, making them ache with need. I imagine rubbing my cockhead against her full lips, her scorching gaze on me as I pump into her mouth, her hair splayed on her shoulders and falling down onto her tits, her nipples hard, her pussy wet for me as I fuck her mouth, then yank her legs apart and sink into her.
And I blow so suddenly and so hard that I smack my palm on the wall to steady myself as cum squirts between my fingers.
“Holy shit.” Dizzy and breathless, I savor the warm water cascading over my body. That was the fastest hand job I’ve had in years.
And that’s the scale of my sexual deprivation lately.
By the time I finish the shower and put a fresh shirt and jeans on, intending to go back to work—because I sleep naked and there is not a chance I can handle that with the wild thing in my bed—I still fantasize about fucking Kat.
The bedroom is dark, the only light the dim glow by the bed.
Kat looks peaceful. Harmless. The spy is unarmed. She sleeps like characters in fairytales—on her back, arms thrown over her head, a perfect pose that would be even better if she were completely naked.
But she is motionless. Even her chest doesn’t rise or fall.
An uneasy feeling turns my stomach.
I approach quietly, studying her body. A respiratory arrest is no joke. It can happen to perfectly healthy people.
I lean over her, bringing my face as close to hers as possible, and watch.
And listen.
And watch.
And listen.
She is breathing, thank god. So quietly, she could pass for a dead person.
Her peaceful face is beautiful. Her lips—full, perfect, so kissable that I want to lick them open.
Stop.
I straighten up and exhale in relief. I should go but I don’t want to. This whole thing is odd. The universe brought her to this island for some strange reason. Maybe to keep me on edge.
I lower myself onto the floor with my back against the bed, take a sip of my drink, and close my eyes.
Today was a little crazy. Wrong timing or circumstances or allergic reaction, and Kat could’ve had serious complications from the bite.
Everyone important in my life is prone to danger.
Mom and little Adam—gone, in a freaky car crash that wiped away what was a picture-perfect Crone family twelve years ago.
Droga—fucked up by an accident and turned into an archenemy for years.
Even Cole who was a buddy for a brief time—shot by the Savages during that attack on Ayana two years ago. Gone.
