little house is nothing but an afterthought left over from my stolen childhood.
But Sheila is everywhere down there. I have no privacy. Normally I don’t require much, but I don’t want to share this girl with anyone until I sort things out. So many nagging feelings about this Molly Masters. So many familiar things too.
I have doubts, but not enough to stop myself from drawing the only conclusion I can.
So I stretch my legs out on the bed and rewind the security footage again.
Molly is a strange combination of emotions as she walks through the tunnel. Afraid? Maybe. But she has that gun out and she’s trained in mixed martial arts. That was obvious with the takedown move she used on me back on the road. Plus, she’s pretty young to be a detective, which means she’s got something. Some skill, or some brainpower, or something that marks her as exceptional.
But does that surprise me? I shake my head.
Her expression, even in the grainy night-vision footage, is one of curiosity and determination. There is no point during this trip down the tunnel where I get the feeling she wants to turn back.
If life is a mystery then Molly isn’t afraid to go looking for the answers. And that does not fit into my current plans.
Her face is soft and round. Her cheekbones high. Her eyes are wide and bright. Hazel, I remember from seeing her out on the road. And her hair is long and light, but not blonde. It’s up in a ponytail in the footage, but not a neat one. Long, wet, twisting strands fall down and frame her face. And her clothes are what most athletic women would wear. Jeans, a sweatshirt, and a canvas jacket that says she likes the outdoors. They are nothing but mud.
I type in a web address and pull up the cameras I placed in her house—just to keep my eye on her, I told myself. Just to keep tabs on her as the drugs worked their way through her system.
But it’s a lie. I watched her last night and it wasn’t out of concern.
The style of her house is minimal, but not modern. Her couches are old and comfortable. I tried them both out. Her bedroom furniture is rustic and unpainted, her sheets a soft blue and her walls a bright white.
And her body. Jesus. I fast-forward the footage until we disappear from view when I put her in the shower. I know it was creepy as fuck to take off her clothes, but she was covered in mud. And going out to buy that lingerie, well, that was stupid. So fucking stupid. I told myself it was a joke and I’m even fighting down a laugh as I watch her wake up and try to figure it all out. But it was really stupid. It was almost like I wanted her to remember me. Make those drugs wear off.
And that is not the best way forward at this point. It comes with a whole lot of problems.
So what is she thinking right now, practically crawling to her bathroom to hurl?
I flick a tab on the screen and bring back the live feed just as she goes into her bathroom to change. Does she always change in the bathroom? Or can she feel my eyes on her?
She comes out wearing shorts and a tank top, her full breasts pressing her peaked nipples up against the fabric of her shirt.
She makes me hard.
And then she bends over, allowing me a good look at her ass.
I unzip my jeans.
She slips into bed, her long legs stretching out on the new white sheets.
I shove my hand into my boxer briefs and fist my cock. It grows in my hand and I have a moment of longing. A moment when I wish that was her hand. That she was the one pumping me up and down in long, even strokes. I sigh, wishing her mouth was coming towards me and we were together.
Together. It’s a weird thought, but I try it on for size.
Don’t go there, Lincoln. You can’t.
She leans over and turns the light out, and then her face illuminates as a reading device comes on.
I imagine her face in the dark next to me, lit up by the computer on my lap as she sleeps by my side. I imagine slipping my arm underneath her toned body, grabbing her breasts, and pulling her
But Sheila is everywhere down there. I have no privacy. Normally I don’t require much, but I don’t want to share this girl with anyone until I sort things out. So many nagging feelings about this Molly Masters. So many familiar things too.
I have doubts, but not enough to stop myself from drawing the only conclusion I can.
So I stretch my legs out on the bed and rewind the security footage again.
Molly is a strange combination of emotions as she walks through the tunnel. Afraid? Maybe. But she has that gun out and she’s trained in mixed martial arts. That was obvious with the takedown move she used on me back on the road. Plus, she’s pretty young to be a detective, which means she’s got something. Some skill, or some brainpower, or something that marks her as exceptional.
But does that surprise me? I shake my head.
Her expression, even in the grainy night-vision footage, is one of curiosity and determination. There is no point during this trip down the tunnel where I get the feeling she wants to turn back.
If life is a mystery then Molly isn’t afraid to go looking for the answers. And that does not fit into my current plans.
Her face is soft and round. Her cheekbones high. Her eyes are wide and bright. Hazel, I remember from seeing her out on the road. And her hair is long and light, but not blonde. It’s up in a ponytail in the footage, but not a neat one. Long, wet, twisting strands fall down and frame her face. And her clothes are what most athletic women would wear. Jeans, a sweatshirt, and a canvas jacket that says she likes the outdoors. They are nothing but mud.
I type in a web address and pull up the cameras I placed in her house—just to keep my eye on her, I told myself. Just to keep tabs on her as the drugs worked their way through her system.
But it’s a lie. I watched her last night and it wasn’t out of concern.
The style of her house is minimal, but not modern. Her couches are old and comfortable. I tried them both out. Her bedroom furniture is rustic and unpainted, her sheets a soft blue and her walls a bright white.
And her body. Jesus. I fast-forward the footage until we disappear from view when I put her in the shower. I know it was creepy as fuck to take off her clothes, but she was covered in mud. And going out to buy that lingerie, well, that was stupid. So fucking stupid. I told myself it was a joke and I’m even fighting down a laugh as I watch her wake up and try to figure it all out. But it was really stupid. It was almost like I wanted her to remember me. Make those drugs wear off.
And that is not the best way forward at this point. It comes with a whole lot of problems.
So what is she thinking right now, practically crawling to her bathroom to hurl?
I flick a tab on the screen and bring back the live feed just as she goes into her bathroom to change. Does she always change in the bathroom? Or can she feel my eyes on her?
She comes out wearing shorts and a tank top, her full breasts pressing her peaked nipples up against the fabric of her shirt.
She makes me hard.
And then she bends over, allowing me a good look at her ass.
I unzip my jeans.
She slips into bed, her long legs stretching out on the new white sheets.
I shove my hand into my boxer briefs and fist my cock. It grows in my hand and I have a moment of longing. A moment when I wish that was her hand. That she was the one pumping me up and down in long, even strokes. I sigh, wishing her mouth was coming towards me and we were together.
Together. It’s a weird thought, but I try it on for size.
Don’t go there, Lincoln. You can’t.
She leans over and turns the light out, and then her face illuminates as a reading device comes on.
I imagine her face in the dark next to me, lit up by the computer on my lap as she sleeps by my side. I imagine slipping my arm underneath her toned body, grabbing her breasts, and pulling her
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