Page 78 of Wanting Wentworth

Even though the drawing of her on the dock is only half finished, I flip away from it to find a blank page. Heart pounding in my chest, I pull out my pocketknife and careful sharpen my pencils, all the while telling myself that what I’m doing is wrong. That I shouldn’t... but I’m not listening.

The second my pencil touches the paper, I go hard. My cock stiffening and throbbing, every stroke of my pencil bringing to life the image that’s been plaguing me since I saw her sitting on the dock this morning.

Kait, naked and spread out in front of me on the dock. Me, kneeing between her open thighs. Rough, tattooed hands gripped around her hips, tight enough that the tips of my fingers disappear into the soft give of them. The wide pad of my thumb pressed against her clit while I lift them off the worn, sun-bleached wood, so I can fuck her. The angle of the drawing shows me what it would look like to watch my cock disappear inside her wet, swollen pussy. Her full, round breasts pushed high, stiff nipples begging for my tongue. Her back arched. Face turned away. Shoulders digging into the scarred wood beneath them. Her mouth open on a moan only I can hear while I pound myself into her slick, greedy pussy.

Fuck.

Slamming the door closed on any sort of decency or self-control I might have, I toss my pencil aside and stand. Fitting my shaking hands into the waistband of my jeans, I rip them open. Pushing them down just far enough to free my stiff cock, I fist my hand around it on a low groan.

What the fuck am I doing?

I don’t give myself time to answer.

Time to think.

Chest heaving, eyes nailed to the image of me fucking Kait on the dock, I stroke my fist up the length of my shaft. Squeezing the head of it hard enough to hurt, I lean forward, bracing my free hand on the table in front of me while I slide my grip down my cock, palm slick with the pre-cum leaking from its tip. I do it again. And again, my hand sliding and stroking along the length of my stiff, swollen shaft, fast and tight, Eyes pinned to the picture in front of me so I can imagine it’s her pussy I’m fucking That I’m pumping myself into her so hard and deep her thighs start to shake and she moans my name every time I bottom out. The rhythmic snap of it, my hips slapping against her inner thighs with every hard pump, I can hear her. Feel her coming for me.

Went… ohmygod…

“Fuuuck…” Pressure and heat explode against the base of my spine while I come on another rough groan, fist still working and pumping my cock while hot spurts of semen hit the table in front of me. Thick ropes of it lashing across the picture I just drew.

Shit.

Hand still fisted around my cock, Breath raging through my lungs, Heart pounding so hard I swear to Christ I can hear my ribs crack, I stare at the drawing of us fucking on the dock, now covered in my cum.

Throw it away.

Fuck—burn that shit.

I don’t throw it away.

I don’t rip it out of my art pad and carry it to the fireplace so I can toss it in.

I leave it right where it is.

Because if Kait comes back, I want her to see it.

Want her to know how much I want her.

How crazy the thought of fucking her makes me.

Chest still heaving, I tuck myself back into my pants before picking up my pencil again. Using it to write something across the bottom of the page, I turn off all the lights, save one, and go to bed.

FORTY-FOUR

Kaitlyn

When I come downstairs to start my day, my mom is sitting in the exact same spot I found her in when I came home from Northpoint, another cup of tea sitting in front of her, alongside a piece of folded paper.

“What are you doing up?” I ask, sliding the red notebook that Went and I used to write to each other that first week onto the table between us. I haven’t had a chance to read it yet and I figured I could while I wait for Two-tone to eat his breakfast. “Is everything okay?” Fear grips cold fingers around my guts. “Dad? Did something—”

“Heavens no.” She waves a hand at me with a head shake. “Your father called me last night—he and Monty made it to Barrett Creek around supper time last night.” Monty is the hand my father took with him to help him with the horses on the drive back. “He’s going to stay the rest of the week. Get caught up with Gene and finalize the horse sale. He’ll start heading back after church on Sunday.” She gives me a long look like she’s trying to convey some sort of message. “He’ll be home by the end of next week.”

You and Brock will be married as soon as I get back.

Bobbing my head, I feel acid pop and bubble against the back of my throat. Swallowing it down, I say a prayer that I can open my mouth without throwing up all over the kitchen table. “What’s that?” I jerk my chin at the folded piece of paper next to her teacup, expecting it to be a list of things I’d forgotten at the store last night or maybe a to do list my father gave her to give to me. Arduous, tedious tasks designed to punish and remind.

Punish me for what I did to his only son and the woman he loved.

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