Page 30 of Pink and Country

The climax built inside me, ripping me at my center as one finger dipped into my warmth, smearing my wetness all over my aching pussy. My sensitive bundle of nerves throbbed under my soft touch.

I dived a second finger in and thrust them in and out of me at a slow pace—the same way HN did earlier—the heel of my hand grazing my clit.

I hiked one leg over the edge of the bathtub, giving me more room to please myself.

My back arched as shivers ran along my spine, electrifying my every cell, rivers of heat furrowing inside me.

My swollen clit vibrated, a jolt of pleasure, raw and powerful, tearing through me.

I let go of the pointer finger in my mouth and brought my hand to my swollen breasts instead, kneading and pinching, seeking a second release.

My hips moved in sync with my fingers, as they hit the sweet spot inside me, over and over, consuming me.

As a loud moan escaped my lips, I tilted my head back, and the pleasure shook my entire body. It took me a few minutes to regain complete consciousness.

The whole time I pictured Hot Neighbor in my head.

Damn it.

* * *

The next morning, HN still haunted my thoughts. I tossed and turned the entire night in my bed, unable to not think of him. I cursed at myself. When I accepted the offer to come to Green Mountain, it was to clear my head. To get my creativity in high gear and pen the first draft of my new novel. Not fantasize about some married man living next door.

I grimaced. Damn, I was doing good.

Until him.

Now I feared my creative mind had left me once again.

Only HN occupied the corners of my brain. And my dreams.

My hormones took over. The bathroom mirror, when I showered earlier, reflected the image of a sex-deprived horny teenager back at me.

Dilated pupils.

Rosy cheeks.

Plumped lips.

Swollen tits.

And don’t get me started on my aching pussy and my need to rub myself with anything at any time. When did I get so horny?

Last night’s bathtub pleasure session didn’t cut it.

I needed a penis. Flesh. The real thing. Stamina. Warmth. Thickness. Arms around me. Fingers tangled in my hair. Lips to kiss. Eyes to drown myself into.

The guys renting the cabin facing mine were all business type people over fifty. They wouldn’t do it. I double-checked them. To be sure. No, none of them would do.

Balled in the hammock chair, a cup of hot chocolate in my hands, and Bernice dozing in my lap, I prayed this would heal me from my horniness.

“Hot chocolate is supposed to heal everything,” I said out loud, mostly because I needed to believe it. Badly.

My mind wandered, needing a distraction. Unable to sit still, I got up and went for a walk. I trapped my cat in the first-floor bedroom and jammed the back door with a rock, to prevent it from shutting completely. The fresh air stung my cheeks. The tip of my nose tingled under the crisp breeze.

Bathing in the cold late-January sunrays, I did a few yoga poses. Warrior one, warrior two, triangle pose. I welcomed the energy flow coursing through me.

Energized, I jumped, stretched my legs, raised my arms over my head—my fingertips tickling the clouds—bent over, rotated my hips.