Jo's Secrets by Arnica Butler

Author:Arnica Butler [Butler, Arnica]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thirteenth Line Publications
Published: 2019-05-06T04:00:00+00:00

C HAPTER 10

Samantha moved through the house like a ghost, deftly stepping around the creaking boards of the kitchen floor, turning the back door handle slowly so it would not squeak, and throwing it open quickly for the same reason. As though not a week had passed since she was sixteen and sneaking out of her house to climb into the back seat of Hank Rowley’s Chevy, parked up the road, motor running.

The night was cool even though it was June. A mist had come down from the mountains and settled into the Sayville valley, cold and brackish, smelling like a fake swamp at an amusement park. She was in a thin white cotton nightgown, one she’d dredged up from the dresser in her old room. Her nipples grew hard in the cool air and pushed against the fabric, rounded like small cherries atop her small, firm breasts. She was easily comparable to a sundae, her nipples pink and large inside of small aureole, her breasts vanilla-colored and rounded like a scoop of ice cream.

While her nipples hardened in the cool air, her pussy throbbed. There was a light on in the barn: all she had to do was walk over there, through the enclosure, ducking slightly under the stone doorway, and stand in the frame of it until he turned around.

She could already picture him in complete detail: his tawny skin, the muscles that moved beneath it, the high-strung, youthful energy in his body, power that was coming into being and not quite under control. She closed her hand unconsciously, nearly feeling the weight and heat of his sizable cock – if the shape against his jeans was anything to go by – and the near-bursting hardness that only an eighteen-year-old could achieve.

She shut the screen door – quickly, so the hinges didn’t squeak, but holding it, so that it didn’t slam. Her breath left her mouth in a cloud, and she saw through the window in the door, the thin lace curtains, to the light in the study cast on the steps.

A pang of guilt slapped her like the bite of cold winter air: What about Andy? Her husband of twelve years?

The bad feeling twisted inside of her, and it was enough to infuse each thing she did with tingling fear, but not enough to stop her from turning around. Not enough to keep her from stepping into her boots, taking a tool – she grabbed it blindly, not seeing what it was, clutching it as she would if she were looking for an intruder, which was the cover story she had already invented if she got caught. Not enough guilt to keep her from stepping into the soft earth – not quite muddy, not quite dry, -her eyes fixed on the light in the barn.

This guilty fear – a fear of getting caught, more than anything, and that is the kind of fear that comes from having decided to go ahead and do something very bad –

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