Total pages in book: 14
Estimated words: 13384 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 13384 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
Radomir stares down at the photo. His jaw clenched. Temples pulsing. “What the fuck is this… ?” He sees my name scrawled on the photo. “Mara?”
The photo shows me in an academic setting. A little embarrassed, I explain, “I didn’t have money for models. So I had to be the model. It’s a personal project. Nothing major. Just a chance to play with light and stuff.”
I snatch it from him, tuck it away.
He turns to me. Eyes blazing. His body shakes as if he’s angry. Or maybe it’s something else. It’s like he’s trying to hold back a tidal wave of …
Of something I can’t name. Don’t want to name.
3
RADOMIR
My cock is a rock-hard staff in my jeans. Pushing against my zipper. I’ve never been this hard before. Especially not over the daughter of a man I killed. This is fucked up, all right, but I can’t stop. I’m going to ruin my jeans, but I can’t stop my mind from racing ahead.
I grab her, tear off that prim-and-proper white shirt. Then shred her tight-fitting leggings with my teeth, reveal that round juicy ass. Bite her creamy flesh to turn it red, then spank her gently to make those curves shake.
Back to reality. She bites her lip. Like she can read my damn mind. She looks as conflicted as I feel. She’s not sure if she should be attracted to the man she already suspects is following her. Stalking, in her words.
“It’s good work,” I tell her. “Stylish. And the lighting is… good.”
Her cheeks flush even more. Naïve and fucking beautiful. Ready for me to corrupt, even if I’ve sometimes told myself lies about being a better man.
“I saw you before,” she says, ignoring the compliment. “In one of my wedding assignment photos from last week.”
I shrug, not wanting to outright lie to her.
She makes a huffing noise. It goes straight to my base. Triggers a devilish thought.
I imagine that huff as a sexual moan. Her moan, when I thumb her nipples, spit on her big tits, then slide my huge cock between them. Pump my hips faster tit-fucking her until she’s whimpering my name and begging me to savage her soppy slit with the same intensity.
“Are you saying it’s a coincidence?” she demands.
“Stranger coincidences have happened,” I say, retrieving my thoughts from the depths of my own hellish imagination. “How long have you been a photographer?”
She bites her lip.
In my head, she’s on her back, naked, flushed, bouncing. Biting her lip as I fuck another orgasm into her, and her pussy makes beautiful, squelching, filthy wet noises as I stretch her in every direction.
“Have we met before?” she asks, ignoring my question.
I shake my head slowly.
“Well, coincidence or not … you probably shouldn’t stare.”
She spins on her heels. Walks away from me across the street. I lean against the wall, trying not to go full monster as her ass swings side to side in those leggings. Big hips tempting me. What a sight. I chomp on my tongue and swallow hard. Thinking.
I could fall to my knees before her. Tear down those leggings. Kiss, bite and slap her ass, make her red, and teasingly avoid her naughty, soppy hole until her juices ooze down her inner thighs. Then shove my tongue into her to see how excited and needy she tastes. I bet she’s fucking tangy. I just know she’d grind back into my face. Wanting more.
She glances at me over her shoulder. Eyebrows raised cutely as if to say, Still staring, huh? She’s torn, no mistake about it. Not sure if she should be enjoying the attention of a staring, older stranger. A stranger whose danger she doesn’t really know. Doesn’t fully appreciate, yet.
I resist the urge to reach down, palm my thick steel over my jeans, and rub until I start leaking precum.
She gets into her beat-up car as I take out a toothpick. Chew it and move it around my mouth to distract myself. Yep, to me, healthier than a cigarette, cooler than a vape.
Her car starts … then coughs up a cloud of black smoke, splutters, and fails. She leans forward and rests her forehead against the wheel.
She looks tired. Like she’s been through too much lately. This, a final straw to heap on top of everything else. Which is true. And which, of course, is my fault. Even if it’s more complicated than she knows.
I walk across the street. She rises from the car. Every movement makes her shake. She’s so damn lively, her flushing cheeks, the sass in her eyes, the naïvety and the fuck-me energy she’s not even aware she’s putting out. Her heartbreak is palpable, too.
“Let me help.”
“Why?” she demands.
It’s the least I can do after killing your old man.
“Because you need it, Mara.”
Taken aback, suddenly. “How do you know my name?”