Her dancing is chaotic and uncoordinated, but there’s a look of rapture on her face that I’ve never seen before. It’s dreamy and uncaring, totally free.
Her hair whips around her head as she spins. She twirls, allowing the music to distract her from whatever it is that’s kept her up this late.
I have the urge to take out my phone and record her.
Not to be an asshole—well, not entirely to be an asshole. But just so that I have something to remember this by. Something I can look back on when I’m alone in my bed. Yet the thought of going back to the main house and taking care of myself again is in-f*****g-tolerable.
I don’t want a f*****g video.
I want to bury myself balls deep in her and make her moan again.
Which is why I step right up to the window so that she can’t miss me.
It take
