Page 174 of Yearn
She'd been watching us more than her TV and planned to keep on.
A slow smile crossed my face.
Let her watch.
Let the whole goddamned neighborhood know by morning.
Maybe every neighborhood needed its saint of hypocrisy—a woman who watched sinners to judge and feel holy.
Slowly, I worked my way down again, tracing the curves of her hips, the crease of her thighs. The scent of her arousal filled my nostrils.
The sight of her wetness glistening in the moonlight was a vision that would stay etched into my memory forever.
I paused for a moment, drinking in the view, my cock throbbing in my pants, aching to be buried back deep within her again.
But not yet, first I wanted to taste her, wanted to edge her on with my piercing.
Lowering my head, I glided the metal bulb over her folds, tasting her intoxicating sweetness.
And that was when I noticed that the lights across the way went dark.
You naughty old nosy woman. Do you like what you see?
Mrs. Patterson's living room went suddenly black, yet I could clearly see her shape in the window as she leaned closer.
She’d shut those lights off, not because she was going to bed.
This was deliberate.
Voyeuristically calculated.
She was settling in to watch and hoping I couldn’t see her in the darkness.
Grinning a little, I lapped at Teyonah’s clit some more.
The thought of being observed sent electricity down my spine.
The neighborhood busybody, the church lady who probably clutched her pearls at the mere mention of impropriety, was standing in her darkened living room watching me devour Teyonah's pussy on her kitchen table.
Good. Watch what a real man does for his woman.
When a person realizes they’re being watched, and likes it. . .those same heady hormones flood in.
Adrenaline.
Cortisol.
Dopamine.
The perfect storm of danger and want.
The quickening pulse.
The heat crawling up my neck.
The sharp alertness that came from exposure.
The risk made every sense keener.
