“What are you running from?” I say, echoing the me from several months ago when this strange and beautiful creature had arrived on my doorstep, lost, and seeking refuge from a world that might have destroyed a lesser woman.
She takes several steps back until there’s nowhere left to go but on top of the counter.
“I’m not running from anything.”
I press against her. She’s stiff as a board. That makes two of us. “I miss you, Stella. I jack it every day thinking about you, sometimes twice a day. I want you.”
“You can’t have me, Van.”
“Bullshit,”
I hiss. I slide my hand into her hair, and pull her closer. I lean in, but I don’t kiss her. “Tell me you miss me. Tell me you’re thinking about me, too.”
“I don’t . . .”
She shakes her head, but her breath is hot and heavy against my face.
“I’m not.”
I close my eyes and rub my cheek against hers. My stubble is likely scratching her delicate skin, but she doesn’t pull away, and I slide my hand under her shirt.
She’s braless. I groan. All those long days and nights she tortured me at the cabin by wearing only my flannel shirts with no bra, and probably no panties either, for all I knew. This little cock tease needs a taste of her own medicine.
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