Page 45 of I’m The Worst

Her on her knees in the cabin, gagging on my cock while I hold her head still.

Her fingers frantically working that tight little pussy at the farmhouse—back arched, thighs shaking, those pathetic whimpers slipping out when she came.

Her pale, naked body under the shower spray. Narrow hips. Tiny waist. Her tight pussy.

I could work two fingers inside her and still stretch her wide. Three would make her cry. My whole fist… Fuck. I could sink my fist knuckle-deep into that tight cunt until she screams and comes all over my arm. Ruin her. Gape her. Leave her hole open and twitching long after I pull out.

My balls draw up tight.

I stroke faster. The wet slapping of my skin echoes off the tile.

I want to split her open. Stretch all her holes until she can’t walk straight for days. Until the only word she remembers is my name—or she can’t speak at all.

My release hits like a gut punch. I grunt as cum shoots across the tile in thick ropes, mixing with the blood still running from my knuckles. I keep stroking through it, milking every pulse until it borders on pain.

Then it’s over.

My muscles unlock. Breathing slows. My head finally clear.

I kill the water and stand there for a moment longer, water dripping from my hair and onto my shoulders as my cock softens. Sweatpants on, I step out of the bathroom, dragging a towel through my hair.

What the fuck?

My hand snaps to the gun on the dresser.

The bed is empty. Sheets twisted, mostly on the floor. Half a second to turn for the door⁠—

My thumb is already easing the safety.

A small sound stops me.

“What the hell are you doing under the bed?”

A rustle. Then her face slides into view—half-shadowed, hair tangled and wet, as she clutches a blanket.

“I feel safer under the bed. I can’t sleep. I can’t⁠—”

“You shouldn’t.” I thumb the safety back on and slide the gun into the holster. “Under the bed is the least secure place in the room. One entry point. No exit. No visibility.”

She stares at me like she’s about to argue.

Then her gaze drifts.

Down my chest. The scars. The ink. Her eyes move slower when they reach my abs. I turn before they drop lower and grab a clean shirt from my bag, dragging it over my head.

“What happened to your hand?” I hear the blankets slide on the floor as she crawls out from under the bed.

Stepping closer to the door, I assess the wedge chair again before I sit down, leaning my back against the wall. The bed creaks as she climbs onto the mattress, the sheets rustling. I close my eyes, but my senses stay alert.

I count the seconds.

Two hundred sixty-three seconds later, she shifts in the bed. Her breath quickens. Her body rolls, and then she sits up.

“Wolff…will you tell me about yourself?”

I don’t open my eyes.

“No. Go to sleep.”