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A girl like her should wear… Nothing. A girl like her should wear absolutely nothing, and she should spend her nights on her back with her thighs spread, her hands pinned, and her body heaving… underneath mine—where no one else can ever lay eyes on her.
She’s so fucking thick. And soft. And beautiful. And the spark behind her eyes is so trusting and healthy and…
And then she repeated it back. Just as simple. Just once. Hans. And I haven’t fucked anyone since.
The curvy little vixen who just turned thirty, twelve days ago—making her nine years my junior and too young for me—and has been doing her best to kill me with food poisoning through her little deliveries.
My stomach protests at the last bite, but I can’t waste it. It doesn’t matter how bad her creations are, my deep-seated need to consume every bit of Cassandra won’t let me throw them away.
Leaning down, I carefully stick the newest Post-it on top of the last one, adding it to my little stack of yellow paper squares. One for every delivery from the girl next door.
On one side of the room, the gray couch faces a subpar TV mounted above a fireplace she never turns on because someone—me—keeps disabling the gas line because someone—her—has left it on unattended one too many times.
Because if Cassandra woke up tomorrow to a bowl of rotten produce, she would feel sad. She’d probably frown. Potentially pout. And I can’t be the cause of that.
The mirror is still slightly steamy—accounting for her wet hair when she left the house—and the mix of shampoo, body lotion, and hair products makes me want to roll around on her shaggy bathroom rug. But I don’t. That would be weird.
shaking. And bouncing… It’s too much.
All her. All my Cassandra. Spread out like a fucking centerfold. For someone else. My vision tints an ugly shade of green, and I storm out of my house, book in hand.
And thief or not, Hans looks like he could use some love.
