lower himself to the blanket with her, if he were to cover her body with his own? Would she stop him, if he ran a questioning hand up a slender thigh, over a naked hip? Would she open those thighs to allow him entrance?
And if she did? How long would it be before she left him? How long would it be before he drove her away too?
"Oh, God help me.” He couldn’t keep standing there looking down at her. He couldn’t keep watching her, wondering what could happen, contemplating the ‘what-ifs’. Closing his eyes, he shook his head and turned to the door. In his room, he stood motionless, almost panting – eyes still closed, hands flexing uselessly at his sides as if they sought to grab something just out of reach.
“She is out of reach,” Michael whispered. His hands settled over his chest, as if to cover his heart protectively, but it ached anyway. He stood for a while that way, head bowed, eyes closed, hands over his heart. Finally, he shook his head and lowered his hands, pushing his jeans and boxer briefs to his knees; he stepped out of them as he pulled his shirt over his head. Finally naked, he scratched a hand over his stomach, snatched a tee shirt and pajama pants from the dresser, and headed for the shower.
She followed him there too, without meaning to – the musk of her scent was stronger there, wafting up to him as he plucked her still-damp towel from the rod. Resisting the urge to bring the soft, Renee-scented terry to his face, he stuffed it into the laundry basket and resolutely ignored the bobbing weight of the erection preceding him. “Christ, I need a drink,” he growled; stalking from the bathroom naked, Michael jogged quickly down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he opened the cupboard and retrieved the rum bottle Renee had caught him with earlier.
He should have run back upstairs immediately, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned to the window and glanced out as he twisted the cap from the bottle. Renee was still there, still lying on her back on the blanket in his yard, the moonlight shining down on her. As he watched, she raised her arms and folded her hands beneath her head, the movement dragging his shirt higher around her hips – he’d been right about her not wearing panties. He could see the glow of moonlight on her skin, and his dick bobbed again, achingly hard, seeking relief.
“What the hell is going on here?” he gasped, his voice ragged as he palmed his own length, stroking absently with one hand as he brought the bottle to his lips with the other. His breath came in panting gasps, his heart thundered in his chest … and he felt like scum. What was he doing? That’s Renee, for crying out loud! But when she sat up and whipped his shirt over her head, wadded it up and used it as a pillow, he couldn’t help it; his grip tightened, both on his hardened length, and on the bottle he was still drinking from.
He watched her run her hands over the modest rises of her breasts, down over her stomach and the curves of her hips; one hand dipped briefly between her thighs, and he choked on his breath. His hand moved faster, gripped harder as she brought her hands back up with aching slowness, pausing to rub slow circles over the mounds of her breasts, and he swallowed disappointedly as she grew still, his hand slowing again as she lay staring up at the stars. “Oh my Christ, this woman’ll be the death of me,” he whispered. “What kind of piece of shit stands in his kitchen and jerks off to his best friend when she doesn’t even know she’s being watched? God, I’m such a pig.”
Still grumbling, he released his grip, shaking his head in disgust as the weight of his still-seeking erection bounced slightly in the air in front of his hips. Taking the rum with him, he stomped back up the stairs, pulled a clean towel from the closet, and finally stepped into the shower.
Chapter Eighteen
When he woke the next morning, Michael’s mouth
And if she did? How long would it be before she left him? How long would it be before he drove her away too?
"Oh, God help me.” He couldn’t keep standing there looking down at her. He couldn’t keep watching her, wondering what could happen, contemplating the ‘what-ifs’. Closing his eyes, he shook his head and turned to the door. In his room, he stood motionless, almost panting – eyes still closed, hands flexing uselessly at his sides as if they sought to grab something just out of reach.
“She is out of reach,” Michael whispered. His hands settled over his chest, as if to cover his heart protectively, but it ached anyway. He stood for a while that way, head bowed, eyes closed, hands over his heart. Finally, he shook his head and lowered his hands, pushing his jeans and boxer briefs to his knees; he stepped out of them as he pulled his shirt over his head. Finally naked, he scratched a hand over his stomach, snatched a tee shirt and pajama pants from the dresser, and headed for the shower.
She followed him there too, without meaning to – the musk of her scent was stronger there, wafting up to him as he plucked her still-damp towel from the rod. Resisting the urge to bring the soft, Renee-scented terry to his face, he stuffed it into the laundry basket and resolutely ignored the bobbing weight of the erection preceding him. “Christ, I need a drink,” he growled; stalking from the bathroom naked, Michael jogged quickly down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he opened the cupboard and retrieved the rum bottle Renee had caught him with earlier.
He should have run back upstairs immediately, but he didn’t. Instead, he turned to the window and glanced out as he twisted the cap from the bottle. Renee was still there, still lying on her back on the blanket in his yard, the moonlight shining down on her. As he watched, she raised her arms and folded her hands beneath her head, the movement dragging his shirt higher around her hips – he’d been right about her not wearing panties. He could see the glow of moonlight on her skin, and his dick bobbed again, achingly hard, seeking relief.
“What the hell is going on here?” he gasped, his voice ragged as he palmed his own length, stroking absently with one hand as he brought the bottle to his lips with the other. His breath came in panting gasps, his heart thundered in his chest … and he felt like scum. What was he doing? That’s Renee, for crying out loud! But when she sat up and whipped his shirt over her head, wadded it up and used it as a pillow, he couldn’t help it; his grip tightened, both on his hardened length, and on the bottle he was still drinking from.
He watched her run her hands over the modest rises of her breasts, down over her stomach and the curves of her hips; one hand dipped briefly between her thighs, and he choked on his breath. His hand moved faster, gripped harder as she brought her hands back up with aching slowness, pausing to rub slow circles over the mounds of her breasts, and he swallowed disappointedly as she grew still, his hand slowing again as she lay staring up at the stars. “Oh my Christ, this woman’ll be the death of me,” he whispered. “What kind of piece of shit stands in his kitchen and jerks off to his best friend when she doesn’t even know she’s being watched? God, I’m such a pig.”
Still grumbling, he released his grip, shaking his head in disgust as the weight of his still-seeking erection bounced slightly in the air in front of his hips. Taking the rum with him, he stomped back up the stairs, pulled a clean towel from the closet, and finally stepped into the shower.
Chapter Eighteen
When he woke the next morning, Michael’s mouth
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