Chapter 3
RADOMIR
My cock is a rock-hard staff in my jeans. Pushing against my zipper. I’ve never been this hard before. Especially not over the daughter of a man I killed. This is fucked up, all right, but I can’t stop. I’m going to ruin my jeans, but I can’t stop my mind from racing ahead.
I grab her, tear off that prim-and-proper white shirt. Then shred her tight-fitting leggings with my teeth, reveal that round juicy ass. Bite her creamy flesh to turn it red, then spank her gently to make those curves shake.
Back to reality. She bites her lip. Like she can read my damn mind. She looks as conflicted as I feel. She’s not sure if she should be attracted to the man she already suspects is following her. Stalking, in her words.
“It’s good work,” I tell her. “Stylish. And the lighting is… good.”
Her cheeks flush even more. Na?ve and fucking beautiful. Ready for me to corrupt, even if I’ve sometimes told myself lies about being a better man.
“I saw you before,” she says, ignoring the compliment. “In one of my wedding assignment photos from last week.”
I shrug, not wanting to outright lie to her.
She makes a huffing noise. It goes straight to my base. Triggers a devilish thought.
I imagine that huff as a sexual moan. Her moan, when I thumb her nipples, spit on her big tits, then slide my huge cock between them. Pump my hips faster tit-fucking her until she’s whimpering my name and begging me to savage her soppy slit with the same intensity.
“Are you saying it’s a coincidence?” she demands.
“Stranger coincidences have happened,” I say, retrieving my thoughts from the depths of my own hellish imagination. “How long have you been a photographer?”
She bites her lip.
In my head, she’s on her back, naked, flushed, bouncing. Biting her lip as I fuck another orgasm into her, and her pussy makes beautiful, squelching, filthy wet noises as I stretch her in every direction.
“Have we met before?” she asks, ignoring my question.
I shake my head slowly.
“Well, coincidence or not … you probably shouldn’t stare.”
She spins on her heels. Walks away from me across the street. I lean against the wall, trying not to go full monster as her ass swings side to side in those leggings. Big hips tempting me. What a sight. I chomp on my tongue and swallow hard. Thinking.
I could fall to my knees before her. Tear down those leggings.
Kiss, bite and slap her ass, make her red, and teasingly avoid her naughty, soppy hole until her juices ooze down her inner thighs.
Then shove my tongue into her to see how excited and needy she tastes.
I bet she’s fucking tangy. I just know she’d grind back into my face. Wanting more.
She glances at me over her shoulder. Eyebrows raised cutely as if to say, Still staring, huh? She’s torn, no mistake about it. Not sure if she should be enjoying the attention of a staring, older stranger. A stranger whose danger she doesn’t really know. Doesn’t fully appreciate, yet.
I resist the urge to reach down, palm my thick steel over my jeans, and rub until I start leaking precum.
She gets into her beat-up car as I take out a toothpick. Chew it and move it around my mouth to distract myself. Yep, to me, healthier than a cigarette, cooler than a vape.
Her car starts … then coughs up a cloud of black smoke, splutters, and fails. She leans forward and rests her forehead against the wheel.
She looks tired. Like she’s been through too much lately. This, a final straw to heap on top of everything else. Which is true. And which, of course, is my fault. Even if it’s more complicated than she knows.
I walk across the street. She rises from the car. Every movement makes her shake. She’s so damn lively, her flushing cheeks, the sass in her eyes, the na?vety and the fuck-me energy she’s not even aware she’s putting out. Her heartbreak is palpable, too.
“Let me help.”
“Why?” she demands.
It’s the least I can do after killing your old man.
“Because you need it, Mara.”
Taken aback, suddenly. “How do you know my name?”
She shrugs. Folds her arms. Fuck. The movement pushes the gorgeous globes of her tits together.
I wonder what shape her nipples are. Big areolas, small little peaks, or small-on-small, or big-on-big?
Whatever shape, I’d tease them, make them hard.
Suck them and then bite down on her whole fleshy tit softly, but enough to see a mark. A tattoo of ownership.
I look broodingly at her. “It said ‘Mara’ on that photo. Must be you.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she murmurs, shifting on the spot.
Her thick legs rub together. Dangerous little thing, it’s like she’s feeling friction, like she wants a release even if she can’t outright acknowledge it.
“Like what?” I ask, moving closer to her.
She looks up. Mouth open. Eyes wide and ready. But also with a glint of self-respect in them, like she knows she needs to stop this. She turns away without responding.
I shrug and go to the hood, pop it. Take a look at her ancient vehicle. What a piece of junk. “You’re going to need to call someone out,” I tell her after a few minutes. “Can’t fix this, here.”
“Oh, great,” she says, sighing. “Like I have the money for that.”
“I can handle it,” I reply. “In the meantime, I can give you a ride home.”
She tilts her head at me. Knows she shouldn’t. Knows she shouldn’t trust the tatted stranger. But maybe she feels it too.
This connection that’s making my cock ache, but my soul sing.