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But even then it was never like this. My dildo has never made me incapable of walking. I never had to slide off the bed, brace to give my thighs a moment to remember their purpose before hobbling to the bathroom.
Am I complaining? No. Absolutely not.
Am I ready for another round? Also no. I need a minute. A day. I’m so sensitive and tender that if he comes near me with his dick—
The reminder that I have a masked stranger somewhere in the house nearly has me choking on shower water when I gasp and inhale while rinsing shampoo from my hair.
Holy shit, there’s a masked man somewhere in the house. A man I invited to chase me naked through the woods, to tie me up when I was sleeping to fuck my ass.
And loved every minute of it.
Oh man, Addie, what the fuck is wrong with you?
This is definitely how murder documentaries start.Stupid, sex crazed bitch let’s masked serial killer repeatedly fuck her into a coma.
Mom would be horrified. Grams would set up camp at her church. The aunts ... well, I know what they’d say, and it wouldn’t be nice or comforting.
Nevertheless, this doesn’t solve my problem.
Maybe he’s gone. Did he even sleep? I was knocked out cold after everything he’d done to me.
My clit pangs with the memory, and I tell that needy bitch to shut the fuck up. She’s the reason we’re in this mess.
“Christ,” I mutter, slapping the faucet off and stepping gingerly onto the plush mat.
Fucker took my clothes.
Everything, except the single pair of panties he tore off. I’m left with nothing but a towel to swaddle up in.
Then, I go searching for the man with the magic dick.
He’s in the kitchen, tall, built, mouthwatering and cooking bacon in a pan ... topless, and holy fuck, the man is perfect. Brutally, undeniably ... so perfect with muscles on top of muscles and a tight, lean waist dipping into a delicious V into the waistband of his pants. I’m staring, but he’s just standing there in gray sweats and a mask, like some dirty whore and I’m only human.
“You need tattoos,” I blurt.
His head comes up and, although I can’t see his eyes, I can feel them run up my form in the same assessing once over I just gave him.
The pan with the sizzling strips of meat is shoved off the fire. The element is snapped off. He raises a hand and crooks a finger at me.
I go happily and have my waist captured. I’m lifted up onto the counter and my knees just spring open like my joints aren’t throbbing in protest.
“Morning,” I say, arms sliding around those wide, hard shoulders.
“Morning.”
I kind of heard his voice the previous night when my brain was melting and everything rang with a fuzzy echo and during Halloween when the music was too loud to be sure. So, I ignore the prickle at the back of my head telling me he sounds familiar. Instead, I focus on the fact that it was so ... simple. He just uttered words so casually in the light of day.
He chuckles at the look of pure shock I’m sure is on my face and the sound is so deep, so gruff, so delicious ... fuck. Fuck! No! I need to ice my vagina.
“How are you feeling?”
More words spoken by the man running large hands across my back and along my sides. My face is hovering inches over his covered one and I’m suddenly so glad I can’t see him. I’m already devastated by what I have seen so far, his penis is a masterpiece, and his voice is about to make me orgasm. If his face matches all that, I’ll be ruined. If it doesn’t, I’ll still be ruined.
“Dimples?”
I shake my head to clear my one tracked brain and realize my mistake when he freezes.
“No, I’m good. I’m ... so good. Really. I would like to know where my clothes are though.”
