Page 52 of Wicked Sin

When I ease my bedroom door open, I’m surprised to see that Taylor’s light is on, a skinny slice of yellow shining out from under her closed door.

And then I hear a quiet vibration.

Her toy. That little palm-sized sex toy.

My cock strains, hard and heavy.

I step back, closing my door with me on the right side of it. The private side of it.

Fuck.

Fucking no, fucking yes. Fuck fuck fuck. I close my eyes and groan again, swallowing the pained sound because she can’t know that I’m awake.

I can’t be awake right now.

Quiet as a mouse, I climb back into bed.

Then I shove my sweatpants down my hips, jack my cock three times, squeezing at the head each time. It doesn’t take anything else. I can see her perched on my lap, holding that toy between her legs.

It doesn’t count if our parts don’t touch, Luke.

And I’m lost. I come all over my hand, a sticky spray of warm fluid. My weakness in corporeal form.

18

Taylor

I can’t sleep.And I can’t come, either, which means I’m horny and grumpy and stuck in a too-quiet house, where I can’t watch porn.

This must be hell.

I close my eyes and let the image I’ve been avoiding slide more freely from the back catalog of my dirty girl fantasies.

Detective Vasquez.

Luke.

No, better if he’s the detective. Pressing me against the brick wall in the alley in D.C. Demanding to know what I’m hiding in my shirt. Rough hands molesting me as he searches, coming up empty, and punishing me anyway.

My pulse jacks up as the image spirals. Now we’re here in this house. He’s in a cop uniform, though. All buttoned up and official. I’m naked. Wet, splayed out. Showing him my pink pussy, my tight asshole, my eager wet mouth. All the holes I want him to violate.

His jaw flexes as I writhe around, his arms tightly crossed, and then, just when I think he won’t touch me, he drops to his knees and latches his mouth on my bare mound, his tongue ruthlessly working my clit until I climax hard.

I come for real at the same time as I do in my fantasy. It’s shaky and good and bad at the same time because now my sheets—his sheets—smell like sex and I have to face him in the morning.

But I got to come.

And now I’ll be able to sleep.

One thing at a time.

I don’t wakeup again until nearly noon. A jolt of panic spikes through me because I think that I’m late for work, but of course, I don’t have a job to go to right now.

Some asshole blew up my car in the parking lot of what should be a place of healing. So someone else is meeting my peer counseling clients, apologizing for the disruption in service, and gently assuring them that it’s safe to talk to a new face.

Everything we share here is confidential.

I was once that client.

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