3. Mike
Three
Mike
I should not be jerking off in my damn truck.
But here I am.
Parked outside the library at nine at night, fist around my cock, jaw clenched tight while I imagine how Shanay would sound with my fingers between her thighs.
It’s sick.
She’s too young.
Too sweet.
Too tied to my life—my past.
But that doesn’t stop me from stroking harder when I think about the way her ass swayed under that soft skirt today.
Doesn’t stop me from gritting out her name when I come all over my palm like a fucking teenager.
Off-limits. Right.
I told myself I’d be professional.
Show up. Fix the roof. Keep things distant.
But the second she opened that door, all that logic went to hell.
She has no idea what she does to me.
No idea how close I am to snapping.
I’ve built walls around myself for twenty years—discipline, silence, routine.
And now this girl—this woman—is burning them down with nothing but a smile and a damn pencil tucked behind her ear.
And those curves.
Jesus Christ.
That body was built to be manhandled.
Her tits—round, heavy, bouncing slightly when she walked me through the back.
Her waist—soft, pinchable.
And those hips… thick, plush, made to anchor me while I bury myself so deep inside her she forgets her own name.
I’ve never wanted someone like this.
Never needed .
And I sure as hell never sat through dinner with a buddy while thinking about his niece spread out under me, begging for more.
But I am now.
And that’s the problem.
Because no matter how many times I tell myself to back off, the second I see her again tomorrow, I’m gonna look.
I’m gonna get hard.
I’t’s gonna get worse.
And if any man lays eyes on her the way I do—
If one of those pimple-faced townies even breathes too close to her—
I’ll break a motherfucker.
She’s not mine.
She shouldn’t be mine.
But I already feel like I’d fucking kill to make her that way.