His Naughty Girls

LIV I shouldn’t be this wet. It wasn’t just an ache. It was soaked-through-my-panties, swollen-and-throbbing, clench-my-thighs-and-breathe-through-it kind of wet. The kind that makes you hate yourself a little, then touch anyway. And I knew exactly who did it to me. Caleb f*****g Thorne. Not my dad. Not my anything. Just the man who raised my sister, paid the mortgage on this too-quiet house, and let me move in after they zipped my mother into a body bag. He didn’t ask questions. Just looked me over once — hoodie, suitcase, busted mascara — and stepped aside like letting me in wasn’t going to f**k everything up. I’d only been here four days. I hadn’t even unpacked my second bag. But I’d memorized his footsteps. The way the hardwood creaked outside my room when he passed. The deep, tired sigh he gave when the front door locked. The way his hand flexed around the edge of the kitchen table when I bent over to grab something I “dropped.” He was trying so hard to be good. That’s what made it worse. Because good men don’t glance at a twenty-one-year-old’s ass like it’s a trap. Good men don’t tense up when you walk into the room in just a tank top and no bra. Good men don’t have to avoid looking at your mouth every time you take a bite of something. And good men definitely don’t jerk off loud enough for the whole hallway to hear. But— here we were. It was after midnight. I was in bed. I should’ve been asleep but my fantasies got the best of me. I was interrupted when I heard it — The sound of skin. Wet, fast, sticky. And then his voice. “Ffffuck uhh—” He was touching himself, he wasn’t slow or soft. He was hard. Rough. Desperate. The slap of his palm against his c**k filled the hallway like a f*****g heartbeat. My mouth went completely dry. Not because I was embarrassed. Because I was soaked. Instantly. Helplessly. I kicked the covers off and sat up. My tank top was soaked to my skin. No panties. Just my thick thighs, heavy t**s, and an ache between my legs that wouldn’t stop pulsing. I should’ve stayed there… but I didn’t. I moved quietly. My door creaked slightly when I opened it. I paused — listened. Caleb’s door was cracked across the hall, open just enough to tempt someone stupid. I crossed the hallway, barefoot, slow. My n*****s, hard as f**k. Hell I wasn’t even pretending to be decent. I stopped at the edge of his door, and couldn’t stop my horny ass self from peeking. He was standing near the dresser, braced with one hand, the other stroking his c**k slow and brutal like he hated himself for it. His body was tense — shoulders tight, abs sharp, forearms flexing. Arghh f**k! I almost whimpered, covering my mouth with my right hand while my left went down to console my soaking p***y. His c**k was thick, flushed, wet at the tip. He was panting. Whispering something — maybe my name, maybe not. But it didn’t matter. Because I wanted him to say it. He kept going. Kept stroking. Harder and faster now. Then his eyes lifted, and met mine. Shit. My breath caught, but those veiny hands — they didn’t stop. He looked me up and down: tank top, t**s, bare thighs — and didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t staring. I didn’t run or speak. I just leaned against the frame and let him see me. He spoke first. Rough, low, and trying too hard to keep himself controlled. “Yo— you should be asleep.” “I’m…not sleepy,” I said, voice too even. “You watching me??” “I mean…you didn’t shut the door.” He didn’t respond, he just stared at me. Stared at my curling toes and rock hard n*****s. His strokes slowed down. He was so hard it looked painful. “Go back to bed,” he said. I didn’t move. “Now.” I turned. I walked slowly, letting my hips sway. I knew he was watching my ass. My soaked cotton shorts were sticking to me. I felt like a f*****g porn scene, and— I liked it. I left my bedroom door open, on purpose. Laid back on my bed. Spread my legs. Let the tank top ride up. And touched myself mercilessly. One finger, then two — slick, fast, filthy. I rubbed my c**t in fast circles, hips rolling, breaths sharp. I moaned. Loud. “Uhnnn—f**k—ahh, f**k” I wanted him to hear me. I wanted him to know what he’d done. I thought about that look on his face. The hunger. The hate. The fact that he didn’t stop. I imagined his c**k in my mouth. Imagined my helpless self choking on it. Imagined him gripping my hair, f*****g my throat, whispering that I was wrong and filthy and that he was going to ruin me anyway. I came hard, my dang back arched. I moaned his name into my pillow. But I didn’t stop, f**k no. I did it again. Slower this time. One hand circling my c**t, the other pulling my shirt up over my t**s. I pinched my n*****s, rocked against my fingers, thought about crawling into his room and climbing into his lap. Thought about him grabbing my hips and shoving his c**k inside me without a saying a dang word. I whispered it then. “Caleb.” And squirted all over the place. When it was over, I laid there. Sweaty. Spread. Dripping. I didn’t close the door. If he came in, I wasn’t stopping him.