Page 49 of Call Me Mrs. Taylor

I want her to acknowledge me. Even better if she lets me in. But she doesn’t. She’s moving again, reaching, pulling something from a drawer…

A toy.

My mouth goes dry.

I shouldn’t be doing this. I should leave.

But I won’t.

I can’t.

She turns, and I step back on instinct. Then I remember—she knows I’m here. She planned it. She made sure I had a perfect view.

And then she sits. Facing me. Legs open.

I let out a slow, shuddering breath.

My eyes fall slowly. Inch by inch, they traverse her smooth brown skin, gliding over every curve until they reach her pussy. It’s completely shaved now.

I stare at her pretty lips and suppress a groan when her clit peeks out at me from between them. I’ve never wanted to taste something so bad in my life.

I take a mental picture. This is something I’ll need to recall later tonight when I’m back at home beating my dick like it stole from me.

Because something tells me she ain’t letting my ass inside her house.

It’s all good, though. This is my penance. My thirty pieces of silver.

She holds up the toy.

It’s black. Light glints off the silver ring around the center of it as she lowers the hand that’s holding it. She presses it between her legs, and the low, dirty hum of the vibration wraps around my brain like a vice.

This is insane.

I’ve never been this worked up over a woman in my life. Never let one have me out in the dead of night, standing in the heat, sweating and shaking and needing. Never let one make me feel like a fucking criminal, lurking outside her window, about to beat off like a teenager with no self-control.

But here I am.

My hand slides down my stomach and grips my belt buckle.

She moans when it touches her clit, tilting her head back, rolling her hips against the toy. I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood as my hand wraps around my dick.

I need to be inside. I need to be the one making her sound like that.

But she’s punishing me for a crime I don’t know I committed.

Apparently, I deserve it.

Her lips part. Her eyes flutter open. Her hips still.

She reaches for her phone.

My brows knit together, confusion slicing through the thick haze of lust.

She presses a button. Raises the phone to her ear.

My stomach drops.

“Yes, I need you to send somebody to my house. I think someone’s watching me through my window.”

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