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Would ya look at that,my girl is a dirty little slut.
Her hand works under the sheets, and her hips undulate as she gets herself off, no doubt to the memory of what just transpired between us. My chest growls as I rub my thumb over my tip, smearing the precum around the highly sensitive skin, my teeth gnashing, imagining it’s her instead.
Flames race across my skin as I strip my cock, watching her sweet fucking mouth fall open on a moan. My other hand fumbles to turn on the audio, her soft pants now echoing in my ears and mingling with my own. The sound is so fucking erotic, even rooms apart, I throw my head back into the chair and squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting this to end so damn quick.
She writhes under the covers, and I imagine her squirming beneath me just like that while I pin her down by the throat and fuck her into the mattress. Will her eyes widen in shock as I squeeze the delicate column, or will they roll back in her head as she gets off on giving up control to her basest needs? I thrust up into my fist, the skin of my cock fucking burning for release, my balls drawing tight.
My eyes become glued to the screen when her other hand pushes her top up, revealing her perfect tits. She toys with her pert nipple, barely ghosting a finger across the pebbled skin. I only realize I’m biting my lip when I taste the metallic tang of blood on my tongue.A goddess, a fucking goddess.
It crosses my mind that maybe she’s putting on a show for me. I’m certain the camera is well disguised, but she’d be right to assume I have cameras covering every inch of this place, visible or not. She pinches her nipple and tugs it hard, moaning.
Shit, shit, fuck.
My orgasm is barreling fast, the base of my spine constricting into a tight knot begging for relief. But I want to fly over the edge with her.Not yet,I growl to myself.
I zoom in on her face, wanting—needing—to learn every twitch and barely perceptible shift in her expression. Wanton pleasure dances across her face, and I grip the base of my cock as she digs her head back into the pillow. She’s close, so fucking close.
I can hear it in the rapid pace of her breath and the stilted motion of her hand on her pussy, the desperate way she bucks up into it. My thighs flex painfully, holding my climax back just a little longer.
But then, with one word ghosted through her lips, I come hard and violently, my cum coating my shirt and fist. I struggle to catch my breath as she repeats the word again while spasming with her own release.
“Cash.”
1.Thing of Beauty—Danger Twins | SummerOtoole.com/Playlists
2.Continue playing Thing of Beauty
Chapter twelve
Good Girls
Harlow
I’vebeenrunningthroughpossibilities in my head for hours. I fell asleep last night like a log of wood after finallyalleviatingthe tension that’s been wound tightly around me ever since I met Cash. But this morning, I woke up before the sun and couldn’t go back to sleep. My mind refuses to remain silent.
Is there a way the kiss cam footage I saw last night could be faked?
CGI can do a lot these days.
Lucky for me, baseball games are always well documented. Aired on TV, snippets recorded by the media team, fans uploading on social media. If I can confirm the footage that places Cash at the game during Beth’s murder from various sources then…then what?
Then I can fuck him without guilt?He’s still a bad dude, like really,reallybad.
He may not be the June Harbor Slayer, but that doesn’t mean he’s a saint. Far from it. And I’d be extremely stupid to forget that.
But the way he kissed me…the way he possessed my mouth like it belonged to him, the way he clamored for more like a starving man, and the electricity that shot through my veins at every sweep of his hands on my skin.
Christ,none of that excuses all the terrible things I’m sure he’s done and will continue to do.
Not to mention, this leaves me again in the dark about Beth’s murderer. Therealreason he’s even in my life to begin with.
God, I’m so fucked.
I just need to go out there and demand he show me every single second recorded and photo taken from that game. If hereallywas there, then I need to know beyond a shadow of doubt.
I jump out of bed, throw on some sweatpants, and fling open my door. I’m fully prepared to say my piece before he even has a chance to speak. I’m not going to waver, waffle, or any other wa-word.
But then, just as I step into the hallway, a door further down opens andholy mother of god.1
