Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 108563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108563 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 543(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
My hips push up as I fuck my hand, precum pooling at my tip as my desperation becomes too much. I need to sink into her.
It’s too much. This isn’t what I came here for. I can’t afford to be distracted by this woman, and yet, I can’t bring myself to drive away. I need this like I’ve never needed anything else, and I feel the exact moment I become obsessed with the idea of making her lose control, the idea of tasting her as she comes on my tongue.
This woman will belong to me.
The thought of how the next twenty-nine days will play out launches me over the edge, and as my tight fist works me up and down, my balls tighten with desperation, pushing me until I can’t possibly hold on a second longer. My release comes shooting out of me, hot spurts of cum pooling into my palm as I groan with satisfaction.
I suck in a breath through my clenched jaw, riding out my release while knowing that nothing will compare to how it will be with Siren. How our bodies will fit together. How a light sheen of sweat will coat her skin as she works me to completion. How she’ll cater to every last desire I have. I knew these games were going to be interesting, but I never could have anticipated this.
As I drive through the streets of Blue Springs, watching Siren’s tail lights disappear around a corner, I reach for a napkin in my center console to clean myself up. I can’t say I anticipated this either. Madly jerking off while stalking a woman back to her home wasn’t on my bingo card for War Games, and yet here we are.
I follow Siren for another hour, grinning to myself as she takes every detour imaginable to make sure no one is following her. She’s smart. She knows I wouldn’t have just left the warehouse without tailing her, but when she pulls into the Blue Springs holiday resort, it becomes clear that she thinks she lost me. Her ignorance is almost endearing.
Bringing my car to a stop in an old bakery parking lot, almost a block away from the entrance of the resort, I abandon my car and go on foot. I reach the back fence of the resort in no time and launch myself over to the other side, dropping down into the manicured grass.
I have to give it to Siren, she’s chosen a nice location to spend the duration of the War Games. No one would have guessed a holiday resort. I can’t fault her, if she wants to spend the next twenty-nine days lounging by the heated pool with bar service and relaxing in the sun, then who am I to judge? Most of the other contenders I was able to sniff out last night are staying in hourly hotels or squatting in abandoned homes, apart from The Boston Maneater, who clearly favored sleeping in old rundown warehouses. Though I’m sure as the games go on and the contenders begin to get desperate, their hotel rooms and homes will be traded out for something a little less . . . obvious. They’ll have to get creative if they plan on hiding from me.
Making my way through the resort, I search every villa until I stumble upon her dented Range Rover parked on a curb. The car is beautiful, satin wrapped, all the extras, but after following her for hours, it’s no secret why it looks like it’s been through hell. She can’t drive. At all.
I shake my head. This woman needs to find a healthy respect for vehicles.
Keeping my distance, I make a quick assessment of the villa. There are four motion sensors surrounding the small building with an additional six surveillance cameras. She’s not taking any chances, and while she hasn’t left a single blind spot, getting in and out won’t be an issue for me.
Lights flicker on inside, and I quickly look up the resort website before finding the images of their villas and making an educated guess on the layout of the property. She’s in the bedroom, probably stripping out of her tight black jeans and kicking off her combat boots before picking out something skimpy to sleep in. Then she’ll take her hair out, letting it fall in thick strands down her back . . . and fuck. I’m hard again.
The fuck is wrong with me?
I stand outside her villa for well over an hour, trying to familiarize myself with her routine, and when the lights turn out, I have a decision to make. I can either go in, fuck her, and then end her life . . . or I can walk away. Only one of those choices appeals to me, so tell me why the fuck I’m turning on my heel and stalking away?