Page 14 of Animal Tamer
“Fuck,” I whisper.
The woman through the wall is whimpering now. I don't hear her. I hear Wren.
Keep going,she says.I'm not done watching.
Her hand goes between her own thighs over her jeans. She presses the heel of her palm down, and her mouth opens a little, and I see the moment her hips push into her hand.
She's putting on a show for me.
My hand speeds up. The slick sound of jerking off fills the trailer, and I don't care. My heels are digging into the mattress, my abs are clenching, and my balls are drawing up tight.
She unbuttons her jeans, and her fingers slip inside. I can see the shape of her hand moving under the fabric, the way her wrist works, the way her breath catches.
Are you close?
I nod against the pillow like she's actually here.
Me too.
In my head, she lowers herself to kneel at the foot of the bed, her hand still working between her thighs, her tits half-exposed where the shirt hangs open. Her hair is in her face. Her brown eyes never leave my cock.
Come for me,she says. Softly. Like she’s speaking tosomething small and frightened that she’s trying not to spook.Come on, Rowe. Let me see.
My fist pumps faster. My hips are lifting off the mattress now, fucking up into my own grip, and the ink on my shaft is a blur in the dim light, and her name is on the tip of my tongue.
“Wren—”
It rips out of me, low, ragged, guttural.
I come hard.
The first pulse hits my stomach. The second hits my chest. Three, four, five, my cock kicking in my fist, my hand slick with it, the inside of my wrist soaked. My thighs lock. My lower back arches off the bed and stays there, suspended, trembling.
Through the wall, the woman cries out. Logan curses, long and guttural.
I don't listen to them.
I'm shaking.
My hand falls open against my stomach, wet and messy, and I lie there with my chest heaving and my cock softening against my hip and the Idaho stain blurring above me.
For a long minute, I can't think.
When I can, the first thought is that I want to do it again.
The second is that I want her here. Not in my head. Not at the foot of the bed in a shirt I imagined unbuttoned.Here.Curled into the hollow of my arm the way Peanut was. Her hair on my pillow. Her breath on my skin.
The third is that I don't know how to want any of that and survive.
I drag a hand through the mess on my stomach and stare at the ceiling and breathe.
Tomorrow she comes back.
For Peanut. Not for me.
I close my eyes.
Through the wall, Logan laughs about something, low and warm. The woman laughs with him.
