“Hold on,” he said, before getting off the couch. He walked towards the door, grabbing a shirt on the way. I stayed there, kneeling on the cushions, my p***y throbbing and exposed to the air, dripping onto the couch. The interruption burned in my chest, we were so close, my body screaming for release.
I heard the door creak open. “Hey, Mrs. Hargrove. What's up?” He said.
Our elderly neighbor's frail tone followed, it was something about a leaky faucet in her kitchen that she couldn't fix herself. Of course, it had to be now. He agreed to help, as the good guy he always pretended to be and I could picture him throwing on that shirt, zipping up his jeans over the hard-on I'd just been worshipping.
The front door clicked shut behind them and silence settled over the house. I slumped back
