Page 57 of Emerald Malice

Through the window of my office, I see Natalia unrolling her yoga mat on the patio. Her high-waisted leggings are skin tight and her sports bra is bright and revealing.

This is the third day in a row she’s walked her green yoga mat over to this side of the house.

The first day, I told myself she was here for the scenery. This location offers the best view of the grounds. From where she’s stretching, I know she can see the red sycamores bending over the pool house, forests of birch and pine rolling down the hills, the skyline the backdrop for all of it.

On day two, I had my doubts that the view was the only reason.

Now, on day three, I know it’s bullshit. She’s here for one reason and one reason only: to win the war in my head.

I wonder if she even knows she’s fighting, though, or if it’s just a primal kind of warfare. Is she aware of how easily she can be seen through my office window? Does she know that, when she bends to touch her toes like she’s doing now, the sunlight lets me see straight through her leggings?

Is she doing it to tease me? Punish me? Seduce me?

Fuck if I know. And fuck if I’m gonna dare to ask her. So far, I’ve managed to keep my distance. A minor miracle, considering how many times a day the woman crossed my mind.

An annoying number of times.

An unacceptable number of times. And that was even before the yoga.

She’s in the middle of downward dog, her ass arched high and pointed directly at me. I rip my eyes away and force them back down to the computer screen in front of me.

But scarcely two minutes pass before I’m risking another glance. Profit and loss have never seemed less interesting. Territory, empire-building, imports and exports and guns and drugs and gambling—the bread and butter of my work is utterly meaningless bullshit compared to Natalia in a?—

Fucking hell, is she doing a split?

Caught between desire and frustration, I unzip my pants and pull my erection out. I’m concerned about the integrity of my blood flow, to be quite honest. I’m on the verge of exploding.

There’s only one way out of this predicament.

Well, two ways, really. But only one that doesn’t involve leaping out of my window, pinning Natalia down to that sweaty yoga mat, and fucking her to within an inch of her life.

Option number one it is.

I grab hold of my cock and start jerking myself off, my gaze trained on her perky tits as she stretches.

Her moans from the night we met are still fresh in my ear. She sounded shocked that any man could make her come so fast. Much less do it again.

She switches position and lowers into a squat with her back to me. Her ass cheeks curve beautifully and I imagine my cock sliding between them, ready to coax another orgasm from her.

Rubbing harder now, my jaw clenches from the stirring inside me. A series of images shoot through my head like a picture slide.

My mouth clamped down around her nipple.

My cock sliding between her slick, wet folds.

Her ass bouncing wildly as I milk moan after moan from her pert, soft lips.

I come with a shudder into my hand.

But the relief is short-lived. The high isn’t nearly as intense or as satisfying as it was the night I fucked her for the first time.

Instead, coming into my own fist has left me feeling like a disgruntled teenager stuck watching his porn buffer.

This isn’t enough. This isn’t even close to enough.

She turns suddenly.

I freeze, only a few stray beads of sweat betraying the fact that I’ve spent the last few minutes indulging in shit I swore I’d steer clear of. My sins are drying on my hand as she peers up from below.

---