Page 43 of Off-Limits

Clenching my jaw, I nod back and move to my side of the couch and keep watching. It’s hard to stay focused on the show, when I can feel and smell Dottie so close to me, but I try and remember the times we watched movies and shows together with my daughter. Her cousin and best friend.

It helps to a degree, thankfully, but I can’t stop the undercurrent thrumming beneath my flesh. We have a few more beers in silence, only talking when it has something to do with Dexter, and by the time we are up to date with the episodes, it’s approaching midnight.

Switching it off, I find her asleep on the couch, my damn shirt exposing her pretty little lace-wrapped pussy.

Closing my eyes, I try and rein in the man-whore inside of me. She is my fucking niece.

Not biologically,the devil on my shoulder pipes up.

“Shut the fuck up,” I say to the quiet room and move on shaky legs over to cover her up.

Throwing a blanket on top of her, I tuck her hair behind her ears and step back before I do something stupid. Again.

Chapter Twelve

DOTTIE

Iwake up while it’s still dark and find myself on the couch.

What the hell?

Then I remember.

Damon.

Dexter.

Beers.

I scoot off the couch, grab my phone off the coffee table, and fold the blanket up. How I could sit there watching the show without ripping him a new one, or moving closer to him surprised me. There is a fine tether between us, one that we must never cross, but I can’t deny there is a part of me that wants to jump all over that damn thing.

Walking toward the room, I falter when I hear a garbled moan from Damon’s room. I move to the door, trying to peek through the slit, but all I can see are shadows in the darkness.

“Fuck,” he groans, and I clench my legs at the sound.

Resting my back against the wall, my laboured breaths are the only thing beside his moans I can hear in the hallway. Ishould move, leave, do something other than stand outside his door listening to him, but my feet are rooted to the spot.

My phone vibrates in my hand. I know it’s the Tin Man.

Opening the message, I stay where I am and bite down on my tongue to stop any sounds. There is a picture of him in black and white, sheets tangled around his legs and the bottom half of his stomach peeks through. But what I can’t stop looking at is the outline of his hard cock.

God damn. That thing is huge!

Damon growls something low and deep, and I force myself to my room. I feel hot and needy, my pussy pulsing around fucking nothing. I need to fix this incessant ache before it capsizes and snows me under.

Throwing caution to the wind, I rip Damon’s shirt off and grab one of my clit stimulation toys from the bag. I don’t bother warming myself up, I place the damn thing on my clit and turn the fucker on.

My back bows off the bed instantly, and I grip the sheets as my hips move in tandem to the air pulsing of the toy. A string of curse words leaves my mouth, moans and whimpers following. I’m not quiet, and a part of me revels at the thought of Damon being able to hear me while he masturbates.

It feels so dirty.

Filthy.

And when my phone vibrates and I open the picture, I find another black-and-white image, this time with his arousal all over his inked abdomen. It spurs me on and sets me off, and within ten seconds I’m coming hard, a muffled cry leaving my mouth even though I’ve bitten down on my wrist.

When I finally come to my senses, I turn the toy off and place it beside the bed, looking at the image, trying to see his tattoos, but it seems he blurred them out.

I’m meeting this man in less than a week. Five damn days. I need to stop thinking of Damon.