“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
I turn around, showing the crack of my ass. “Does this angle suit you better?”
“Oh my God!” she growls and turns around, heading back into her home.
She’s wearing those tight yoga pants again, the ones that make my blood ci
rculate. I start to get worried I missed her morning jog.
“Aw, come on. Have a sense of humor,” I yell, right before she shuts the door.
“Shit,” I whisper, chuckling to myself.
I take the hat off my dick, and let it fall to the floor. I finish my cigarette before heading back inside.
The mornings always get to me. I’m hungry like a fucking animal. No, I’m starving for pussy.
I haven’t gotten laid in months and there’s not even an escort agency in sight. Out here, I’m screwed, but not in the literal sense.
You’d think a woman like her would be wanting the same thing. Unfortunately, she’s making me work for it.
She doesn’t realize how much I like the chase.
I close my eyes and think of her body. I trail her like a hunter. I imagine placing my hands slowly up her desert sundress. I think about what that would feel like, what she smells like, how she might moan my name: Rowan. Fuck me, Rowan.
Soon enough, my hand is around my cock, and I’m spitting on my shaft. Am I perverted? Yeah, you could call me that. What man isn’t?
In my imagination, she’s leaning against my rickety old porch. I’ve just finished working on my bike and I haven’t even gotten a chance to take a shower. She wants me that bad.
She’s holding onto the wood, softly pushing out her backside, allowing me to run my hands over her cheeks. I explore her, finding out everything I need to know.
I slowly spread those cheeks open and lean forward, until I’m face to face with those dripping lips. The scent alone thrills me.
Her pussy opens for me, and I don’t have to taste her to know she’s ready for me. In this dream, I eat her for hours.
I suck on her lips. I lick her clit. I do everything I can, until I can’t take it any longer.
I need to be inside her.
I open my eyes and glance down at my throbbing cock. I lose grip on reality and fall back on my bed. I shoot my load into my covers and sigh heavily, breathing irregularly, with haste.
I grab my sheets. “Fuck,” I groan. I have to catch my breath before I can take a shower.
The problem is that once I get an idea in my head, I can’t let it go. It’s like an addiction. I’m not stopping now.
This woman, Caroline, is as feisty as a hot pepper. I’ve met women like her before, but they’re usually loaded to the brim with ammunition. The only ammunition this woman has is in those hips of hers.
All it takes is one daydream.
One explosive orgasm, and I’m obsessed.
My garage is my sanctuary. Those who ride understand. Those who don’t, well, I couldn’t care less about what their opinion is.
I’ve put up all the necessary posters. I’ve got my Sports Illustrated women blessing the room. This is my palace.
Only problem is, my baby is dead. My bike, that is. After my scuffle with the feds, my engine blew. The entire thing just stopped running.
It gives me some work to do, while I contemplate how the hell I’m going to get back to my boys. Or when.