Page 5 of After Hours
Once again, he was relentless. The pace he set was demanding, hard.
Glorious,Romily thought.
And she found herself squirming around, pressing her thighs together, working for that same white hot glimmering finish she could feel the couple inside were racing toward.
He gripped the woman’s head and fucked her harder. He had to be halfway down her throat.
He pounded into her, then went even faster, gripping the blonde’s head close as his gorgeous body stiffened.
Outside, Romily bit her own hand and pressed her thighs tight as she, too, exploded.
But when she opened her eyes, the man wasn’t looking down at the woman who still had his big dick in her mouth, her throat working to drink him all down.
He was looking straight at Romily through the glass, his blue eyes so intense she felt a jolt go through her and came again.
Even harder than before.
And then, too late, she ran.
Chapter Three
Zachary London knew exactly who he’d caught at his door, playing voyeur games.
Not her name.
Not her story or the whole of whatever situation had brought her to the neighborhood—and there was always a story around here. There were as many artists as bums, as many people hiding as finally living the way they wanted in this part of Oakland, but it was often hard to tell the difference between the two.
Still, he knew her.
He knew she had dark, glossy hair that she usually wore in a long braid and tossed over her shoulder. He knew she liked smashing a battered trucker hat on her head and pulling it down low on her face. Presumably to hide, when all it really did was draw attention to her mouth. Full lips, never smiling, but enough to set up shop in his head.
Not to mention his dick.
It was later that same night and he shouldn’t be getting hard again like he hadn’t come a few times already. He’d thanked his date for a decent scene and sent her on her way. But all Zacharycould think about was the woman he’d seen watching them. And how easy it would have been for him not to look up when he had.
That wouldn’t have worked for him at all.
Because now he knew that she was a little twisted, his lost little bird.
Truth was, Zachary liked a specific kind of sex, delivered in a specific kind of way. It wasn’t that he didn’t like face-fucking a pretty woman, because of course he did, and the date he’d had tonight was particularly good at handling a man with a large cock.
But he was wired for more of that power exchange, not just disconnected scenes.
He wanted more—even though he wasn’t one to allow himself too many indulgences. Still, his cock got hard just thinking about it, and when he did, it wasn’t the blonde he saw.
It washer.
It was those wide amber eyes he’d seen staring back at him earlier, flooded with that wild heat.
“Just a little twisted,” he found himself saying out loud.
He stood at the window in his apartment above the gym, in the building that was the first thing he’d ever fully owned in the world. The first thing that was his after the way he’d grown up and the price he’d paid for that. This building that he’d found in ruins and had built into something strong and lasting, that had possibly been the reason he’d imagined he should involve himself in more renovation projects.
It had taken longer than it probably should have, but he’d cut himself off from renovations by now. Of any description.
He was old enough and wise enough now to let people handle their own restorations. It was better that way. He knew that from long and painful experience.
And yet Zachary kept playing out what had happened earlier again and again in his head. His date. A decent fuck. A better blow-job.
