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Always Alone With You

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John leaned against the bathroom counter, casually rubbing his hand over the bulge in his jeans as he closed his eyes, thinking back to the woman he’d seen just five minutes ago on the way home from doing some research.

He hadn’t seen her face - just the line of her shoulders and the way her blonde hair had blown in the breeze.


She’d been wearing a knee length skirt that wrapped sinuously around her curves as the wind blew more strongly, and she’d teetered on her slight heels as she tried to shove her packages into the trunk of her car. A stiff gust lifted the hem of her skirt, flashing a long line of lean leg, and she’d clumsily held it down as she tried to close her trunk, glancing around with a touch of embarrassment as if hoping no one had noticed.

John had noticed. He hurriedly unzipped his jeans, tugging out his swollen cock as he ran his palm roughly over the slightly seeping head.

So much of that scene had reminded him of her - the slight embarrassment over her own prettiness, the doubt that anyone would want to look at her.

He slid his hand along his shaft, squeezing firmly, digging his teeth into his lower lip as he kept his eyes closed in concentration.

That leg had been surprisingly tan – Mary must have been lying out when he was at work to get such a golden hued color. He wondered what other surprises she might be hiding under that skirt.

She tilted her head over her shoulder to glance at him, giving him that coy smile that indicated she wanted him as she turned to hop up on the trunk of the car, legs slightly open as the wind teased along the ruffle at the hem. She leaned back to rest on one hand, arching her breasts forward provocatively as she mischievously played with the border of her skirt, pulling it up slightly to reveal a tan flash of thigh.

John groaned, needing release, his hand moving faster as he tried to force his reluctant climax. He furrowed his brow, the need almost painful as he dug his teeth even harder into his lip, his whole body crying out.

The door to the bathroom swung silently open to reveal Illyria standing there in all her regal glory. The sun seeping through the drapes highlighted the stark curves of her leather-clad form. Her gaze swept up his figure, taking in the thick cock gripped in his hand until it reached his face, lined with such frustration and just a touch of pleading.

“Do you need assistance?” she asked, tilting her head slightly to the side with that blankly curious expression. Her blue eyes burned against his exposed skin, as if he could feel them tangibly traveling along his body.

Relief washed over John as she took him in hand, her firm, supple fingers toying along his cock as she ran them over the ridges and along the seeping slit.

She wasn’t gentle. She was still very much Illyria – take charge and dominant, every sweep of her pale hand demanding he buckle to her will. John steeled his resolve, trying to deny her despite his shaking knees and the warmth building in his belly.

“You are a strong-willed one,” she conceded with that odd quirk to her lips, dropping gracefully to her knees. Her tongue, touched with the palest blue down the center, reached out to taste him and….

John came, spilling hotly over his own hand as his entire body tensed, his orgasm torn from him without any reserve. John gasped, his face scrunched with effort before his body went suddenly slack. Dizzily, he leaned more heavily against the countertop, opening his unfocused eyes to the empty bathroom as his come clung stickily to his fingers.

Fuck. Why did she keep showing up?

John absently cleaned himself, tucking his spent cock back into his jeans, refusing to look at himself in the mirror. He knew what he’d see, just as he had all of those other times – a strange combination of guilt, disbelief and utter relaxation.

At least she hadn’t brought him string cheese this time.

Taking a deep, calming breath, John flung open the bathroom door, walking out to find Illyria sprawled across the couch, idly flipping one of their hunting knives as she watched an old episode of Miami Vice.

“Are you ready?” she demanded in her usual straightforward manner. “Sun sets in less than an hour.” She jammed the blade into the wood of the cheap table, adding another scar to the worn tabletop.

“I’m ready,” John agreed, his tone firm and steady as the daydream from the bathroom was firmly locked away where he prayed he would not need it again. “Let’s go hunting.”