Page 36 of The Stranger
The moment I’m out of sight, the first thing I do is adjust my aching cock. “What were you thinking by bringing her here, Prescott?” I mumble under my breath.
Tomorrow, I’m going to make it my mission to find her an alternative arrangement.
Delilah headed to bed over an hour ago, once her work shirt was finished drying, but I’m too buzzed to sleep. I’m sitting outside on the balcony, my legs propped up as I gaze up at the stars, smoking a cigar and drinking my second glass of bourbon. I’m trying to make sense of the clusterfuck that’s raging inside me.
I thought covering her up would help, but seeing her draped in my clothing, just a simple T-shirt that swam on her and almost reached her knees, only seemed to heighten my desire to claim her. It had me wanting to beat on my chest like a caveman. That, combined with the sight of her pillowy lips closing around the fork as she ate, or the slight muscle movements in her neck as she swallowed, had my dick wanting to burst through the zipper of my jeans.
Never in my life have I craved a woman as much as I did her earlier. It was maddening …she’s maddening, and I need her gone. I don’t think I could withstand the torture that would come with a repeat of tonight. Where can I house her? I know she won’t allow me to put her up in her own apartment. Maybe my mother could take her in. Hmm. Yes, that could work.
Now that I have a solid plan in place, I stub out my cigar, down the rest of my drink, and stand. I’ll call my mother first thing tomorrow and organise it.
After turning off all the lights, I head towards the hallway that leads to my room. I try not to think about Delilah sleeping behind the first door as I pass, but the scent of her damn shampoo still lingers in the air, which has my dick instantly swelling again.
A deep, primal groan bubbles in the back of my throat as I close my eyes and tilt my head towards the ceiling.
As soon as I enter my bedroom, I close the doorbehind me and lock it before heading towards my en suite. I lean into the shower cubicle and turn on the taps before stripping out of my clothes. Once the water is warm, I step under the spray and wet my hair, all the while trying to ignore my throbbing cock.
I need to take care of this monstrosity because I’ll never be able to sleep if I don’t. My problem is, how do I do it without having impure thoughts of Delilah St. James?
I try to conjure up a non-Delilah image, and Candice Swanepoel is the person who comes to mind. She’s a South African supermodel, and when I was eighteen, my father took me to a Victoria’s Secret fashion show, and she was the first model to catch my eye. I thought little of it at the time, but when my father’s true colours surfaced a few years later, I concluded the trip was more for him than it was for me.
Candice may be age-appropriate for my fantasy, but with her long blonde hair and striking blue eyes, it only takes a moment for her face to morph into the one person I’m trying not to think about.
Wrapping my hand around my rock-hard cock, I squeeze it as I try to push that image from my head. It’s no use. The moment I stroke myself, I’m suddenly picturing Delilah in front of me on her knees. Her pretty blue eyes stare up at me—eyes that I could seriously fucking drown in—as she nibbles on the corner of her plump bottom lip.
Fuck, I’m going to hell for this.
The room has now filled with steam as I pump body wash into my right palm and rest my forehead against the cool grey tiles. I wrap my hand tightly around the base of my dick as an image of hardened nipples poking through that flimsy silk camisole takes over. Her fingertips brush the thin spaghetti straps over her shoulders, and I groanloudly when the material drops to her waist and her perky tits pop free. It’s like an erotic striptease and I want more …I want it all.
My heart is beating furiously against my ribcage as my movements quicken. “Yes,” I grunt when she cups her tits in her delicate hands and pinches the stiff peaks between her forefinger and thumb.
“Spencer,” she moans, and when that sexy fucking mouth of hers forms a perfect little ‘O’, I almost blow my load then and there. But I’m not ready yet. If this is the only time I’m going to allow myself to cross that invisible line I’ve drawn between us, I plan on dragging it out as long as I can.
My blood is running hot when she pushes the soft flesh of her tits together, creating a snug, warm haven for my cock.
“Delilah,” I murmur as my strokes become sluggish.
One of her hands drops away, skating south over her toned stomach. When the tips of her fingers disappear behind the elastic of her sleep shorts and between her slightly parted legs, I feel my balls draw up.
“Oh God,” she breathes as she works herself over.What I wouldn’t give to witness this in real life.“I’m so wet for you, Mr Prescott.” My hand is moving at a furious pace now, and I know I can’t hold back much longer. When she arches her back and moans loudly, a tingle runs down the length of my spine. “I’m coming, Spencer … I’m coming so hard,” she whimpers, and I am right there with her.
My fist is now flying as a wild, uninhibited roar rips from deep inside me. “Delilah,” I cry out. My legs threaten to give out from underneath me as long ropes of hot cum spurt into my free hand.
I stand there panting as I try to get air into my lungs,and it’s only once I wash up and climb into bed ten minutes later that the shame of what I just did takes hold.
Thankfully, my back is to Delilah when she finally emerges from her room. I’m in the kitchen making myself a second cup of coffee, and I don’t need to turn around to know she’s wheeling her suitcase as she approaches.
“Where are you going with that?” I ask.
“Good morning to you too,” she retorts.
I continue making my coffee, taking my sweet time, before facing her. I bring the mug to my mouth as my eyes briefly skim over her, and I’m pleased to see she’s dressed for the day and no longer in my clothes or that damn pink silk … although, that barely there denim skirt doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
“What does your boss think about you wearing that to work?”
“What?” she says, glancing down at herself. “This is a work-issued top.”
“I’m referring to that,” I reply, flicking my pointed finger towards her lower half. “That poor excuse for a skirt.”
