Of all the atrocious s**t I’ve done since my father died—vandalizing cars, getting into drunken brawls—the thoughts I’m having right now are by far the worst.
I stand above Stella while she spreads the blanket out on the sand. Her skirt is in tatters in my car, so she’s wearing nothing but panties and a button-down shirt. And not a single one of the buttons are fastened, thanks to some work from my deft fingers back in the truck. So she’s on her knees, arranging the blanket and her t**s are dangling there like forbidden fruit. My d**k is stiffer than sin in my briefs, there is no one around for miles and I can’t help it. I can’t help but think about how easily I could make her mine right now.
I wouldn’t have to use force. She’s addicted to skin on skin contact with me. It makes her hot.
