Chapter 6 Damien
DAMIEN
The snow falls in lazy spirals outside Morgan’s family home, coating the quiet street in white.
I slouch lower in the driver’s seat, my breath fogging the windshield despite the heat I've got cranked up.
My fingers drum against the steering wheel as I watch the warm glow from the kitchen window fade to darkness.
One light left. Upstairs bathroom. Someone brushing their teeth—must be Morgan's parents.
I check my watch. Eleven forty-seven PM.
Morgan's bedroom is downstairs, at the back of the house. I scoped it out this afternoon while the family was out at a local diner for lunch. Ground level, partially hidden by overgrown hedges that haven't been trimmed in years. Perfect for what I need.
My cock twitches at the thought of her in there, maybe in one of those thin sleep shirts women wear.
The image floods my brain before I can stop it—Morgan at the gym, all flushed and nervous, stumbling over her words like I make her forget how to speak.
She had no idea I'd been there the whole time, watching her freeze up during that self-defense drill, cataloging every expression that crossed her face.
And I was both angry and turned on, because it's obvious her ex really fucked her over, but God damn, she looked amazing in those tight as fuck leggings and skimpy sports bra.
I've jerked off more in the past week than I did at fifteen. It's pathetic. But the way she looked up at me from her knees, those dark eyes wide and trusting, her lips parted—Christ. I had to grip the steering wheel on the drive home to keep from pulling over and finishing myself off right there.
The upstairs light clicks off.
I wait. Count to three hundred, watching for any movement, any sign someone's still awake. The neighborhood stays silent except for the occasional gust of wind rattling the bare branches.
My phone buzzes. Ethan.
Are you there yet, psycho?
I ignore it, slipping the device into my jacket pocket. He's been riding my ass about this trip since I told him I was driving to Madison. Kept asking what the hell I planned to accomplish by following her home for Christmas like some lovesick stalker.
I turn off the ignition, the engine's rumble dying to silence. My gloved hand reaches for the ski mask tucked in the glove box—black, nondescript, something I grabbed from my gear bag. The fabric slides over my face.
The cold hits me when I step out, snow crunching under my boots. I ease the door shut, barely a click, and move around the side of the house.
The path's right where I mapped it this afternoon. Two massive rhododendrons, overgrown and wild, their branches tangled together to create a natural blind spot from the street. I duck between them, the frozen leaves scraping against my jacket as I push through.
Her window materializes through the gaps in the branches.
Net curtains. Sheer fucking net curtains that might as well be tissue paper, and she's only bothered to pull them halfway across the window. The bedroom glows with soft lamplight, casting shadows across cream-colored walls and a bed with too many pillows.
Empty.
I settle into position, boots planted in the snow, shoulders pressed against the rough bark of the rhododendron behind me. The cold seeps through my jeans, but I barely notice, too focused on the rectangle of light, waiting.
Movement.
Morgan steps into view from what must be the bathroom, and every coherent thought evacuates my skull.
Her hair's piled on top of her head in one of those messy buns that women do without thinking, exposing the elegant line of her neck. But that's not what makes my breath catch.
Lingerie. Black lace that cups her breasts, the kind with a clasp between them that I could flick open with one hand. Matching panties that sit high on her hips, showing off legs that look even better without fabric hiding them.
Fuck.
Blood rushes south so fast I get dizzy with it.
My cock strains against my zipper, hard and demanding, and I press my palm against it through the denim.
The pressure isn't enough. She's better than anything I imagined during those late-night sessions with my hand wrapped around my dick, better than the fantasy I've been torturing myself with since the gym.
She moves toward the bed, completely unaware of my eyes on her.
The bed is positioned as if fate decided to hand me a gift—angled toward the window, giving me a perfect view of the headboard, the pillows, everything.
Morgan crawls onto the mattress, moving with a languid grace that makes my teeth clench. She settles against the pillows, one leg bent, the other stretched out. Her phone glows in her hand as she scrolls through something I can't see from this distance.
Then her free hand starts to wander.
Fingers trail down her throat, slow and absent-minded. Over her collarbone. Between her breasts, where that little clasp winks at me in the lamplight. Lower, skimming her stomach, tracing the edge of the lace.
My hand moves to my zipper without conscious thought, yanking it down.
The other dips into my pocket, fingers closing around soft cotton—the panties I'd taken from her hamper when I broke into her apartment.
Pale pink, nothing like the black lace she's wearing now, but they smell like her.
Like that sweet, clean scent that's been driving me insane.
I free my cock with one hand while pressing the fabric to my face with the other, inhaling deeply through the mask.
The cotton's soft against my nose, and underneath it—fuck—underneath it is all Morgan.
The subtle musk of her, the laundry detergent she uses, something uniquely her that makes my cock throb harder.
Her fingers slip beneath the waistband of those black panties.
"Christ," I breathe into the mask, the word muffled. "That's it, princess."
She shifts on the bed, phone forgotten on the comforter beside her. She’s using both hands now, one still working beneath the lace while the other cups her breast through the bra.
I wrap her stolen panties around my length, the soft cotton a poor substitute for what I really want but better than my bare palm. The fabric drags over the frenum piercing, the slight friction making me hiss through my teeth.
A growl builds in my chest, low and animalistic. "Touch yourself. Show me what you do when you think nobody's watching."
She can't hear me. Has no idea I'm out here in the frozen dark, cock in hand, watching her fingers move in slow circles. But I keep talking anyway, the words spilling out like a prayer.
"Bet you're wet already. Bet you're thinking about someone while you do it." My fist strokes once, twice, the pink cotton bunched around my shaft, my piercing catching on the fabric with each stroke. "Are you thinking about me, Morgan? About how my hands felt on you when I saved your life?"
Her back arches off the bed.
"That's it. Good girl." The endearment comes out thick, almost slurred. "Spread those legs wider. Let me see that pretty fucking hole I want to fuck."
As if she fucking hears my request, Morgan hooks her thumbs into the lace waistband and slides the panties down her thighs. The motion's unhurried, deliberate, like she's got all the time in the world. She kicks them off, lets them fall somewhere off the side of the bed, and then—
Fuck.
She spreads her legs.
Not just open. Wide. One knee bent up toward her chest, the other stretched out, giving me a view that makes my vision blur at the edges.
"Jesus Christ," I rasp, my hand tightening around my cock through the cotton. Glancing down, I see the panties are already damp with precum, the fabric darkening where it leaks from the tip. "Look at you. Look at that perfect little pussy."
Her fingers dip between her legs, disappearing inside. Even through the window, I can see how wet she must be, the way her fingers slide in easily, the way her hips roll up to meet her own touch.
My breath comes faster, dampening the inside of the mask. "That's it, baby. Fuck yourself with those fingers. Pretend it's my cock stretching you open."
She adds another finger, her mouth falling open on what I imagine is a moan I'll never hear.
"You'd take me so well, wouldn't you?" The words pour out, filthy and unfiltered. "I'd make you scream my name while I pound into that tight little cunt. Make you beg for it."
Her pace increases, fingers pumping faster.
"Yeah, just like that. Harder." My fist flies over my length faster now. "I'd pin your wrists above your head, keep you right where I want you while I fuck you until you can't walk straight."
She's close. I can tell by the way her body tenses, the way her free hand grips the sheets.
"Come for me, princess. Show me how pretty you look when you fall apart."
My cock throbs in my hand, balls drawing up tight. I'm right there with her, balanced on the edge, ready to explode all over the snow at my feet while I watch her touch herself in that little single bed.
Her body goes rigid, back bowing off the mattress. The orgasm rips through her, and even from out here, I can see how her thighs shake, how her fingers keep working her through it.
"That's my good girl," I groan. "Fuck, Morgan. Fucking perfect."
The visual of her spread out like that, coming undone, shatters whatever control I had left.
My release barrels through me, white-hot and devastating.
Cum spurts across the snow in thick ropes, painting the frozen ground while I bite down on the inside of the mask to keep from making too much noise.
"Shit." The word comes out strangled as another pulse hits. "Fucking hell."
My hips jerk forward, hand still stroking, milking out every last drop while I imagine something completely different. Not my cum wasted in the snow like this, but pumped deep inside her instead. Filling that tight little pussy until it drips down her thighs, marking her from the inside out.
The image makes my cock twitch even as the orgasm fades, still semi-hard in my palm.
I picture her on that bed, legs spread like they are now, but my cum leaking out of her swollen cunt. White against all that pretty dark caramel skin, proof that I'd been there, claimed her, bred her properly. She'd look fucking incredible like that—used and full and mine.
"Christ," I mutter, finally looking down at the ruined panties in my hand. They’re completely soaked with my release. But I’m not throwing them away. Instead, I shove them back in my pocket.
They’re mine now. Marked. Just like she is going to be.
I tuck myself away with shaking hands, my piercing still sensitive as it drags against my zipper. "Get it together, D."
Morgan moves on the bed, reaching for something. A tissue box appears, and she cleans herself up quickly. The post-orgasm haze seems to hit her because she yawns, stretching like a cat before pulling the comforter up over her body.
The lamp clicks off, plunging the room into darkness.
I stand there in the cold, breathing hard into the mask, watching the dark rectangle of her window. My heart pounds against my ribs, adrenaline and arousal still coursing through my veins even though I just came harder than I have in months.
This obsession's getting worse. I should leave, drive back home, put distance between us before I do something really stupid.
But I don't move. Just keep watching that window, imagining all the things I want to do to the woman sleeping behind it.