Page 13 of Silver Fox Grump
And I can’t. My best friend would be as accepting of me being with his daughter as a pigeon is of clean cars.
So although my desire for Maisie is far from only physical, I keep it that way. This is more than I dreamed of, in fact.
Maisie on the screen is adjusting her position as she reads, and the front of that little tease of fabric flops down, giving me a perfect view of her tits.
And yeah, I crave her company.
But I’m a man. I want her lush, tight body, as well as her soul.
Then she eases one hand down her stomach, and I stop breathing as she reaches into her lace knickers.
She’s touching herself. Then she’s writhing, and the book is cast aside, and somehow, she’s looking straight up into the camera as she goes pink in the cheeks and her mouth opens in a pant of desire.
Suddenly, it’s too much. I rip open my trousers and release my cock, then jerk myself. Using my left hand, it feels slightly less like it’s me, and I can imagine it’s her. Inexperienced, but eager as she can’t wrap her fingers all the way around.
My cock is thick and heavy with need. I stroke myself with quick, harsh pumps of my fist as I watch. The pleasure is sharp, and I throw back the last of my whisky as I feel the tingle as my balls fill up, telling me I’m close.
Breathing hard, I take my hand off my cock and flick my shirt buttons open, revealing the familiar lines of the tattoos that cover my chest.
On the screen, Maisie has altered position, so her arse is pointed straight into the camera as she bends at the waist and continues to stroke her clit inside the knickers.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “It’s like you’re trying to make me think of taking you that way, Maisie.”
It’s not.
She doesn’t know I’m watching.
I don’t have any illusions about myself, but when Maisie arches her back and wiggles her arse, I feel like the filthy monster I truly am.
I stroke one thumb delicately over the screen, wishing I could touch her. Then when she shakes and collapses as she comes, I blow my load in wild spurt after spurt. Uncontrolled.
It’s pleasurable. And hollow.
* * *
She continues like this. Walking around in her apartment in hardly any clothes—just a pair of white cotton knickers, or a baggy T-shirt that doesn’t cover her arse. Sometimes only wearing tiny knickers.
It’s like she’s deliberately teasing me. I’ve been stalking Maisie for two years, and she’s a young woman with the usual needs, but they’ve been satisfied in her bed before. Now, she reclines on the sofa and flicks the bean, with or without underwear, or sits on the kitchen counter. Her bruises heal, and she looks more beautiful and sexy by the day.
If watching her was good before, it’s somewhere around torture now. It used to be an obsession, it’s turned into an addiction.
So it’s a positive thing when I have a social appointment where I absolutely cannot open my phone and sneak a look at Maisie.
Wes and I meet in the Morden executive exercise suite, the part that actually has a gym and a shooting range, not the cells. They’ve been thoroughly cleaned, and are thankfully empty of distractions. Wes is far too bloodthirsty to focus on target practise or lifting weights when there’s someone to extract information from.
We’re chatting about London mafia politics and trying out some new guns Wes has had shipped in, when he changes the subject.
“I’ve been thinking about Maisie. I’m still concerned about that bruise she had. What if she has a boyfriend?”
I choke slightly. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’d kill him.” I pull the trigger repeatedly, with more force than necessary. It’s a blanket denial of the idea of Maisie being with anyone, as well as a rejection of the link to her self-inflicted bruise.
Wes nods. “You said you’d look after her, and I trust you.”
And I’m betraying that trust by watching his daughter touch herself. Intimately. And doing a bit of a follow-along myself. If my best friend knew, I’d be dead in seconds.