She woke up, about half an hour after daybreak, to the chirping of the birds outside.
I was watching.
She began to change her clothes, and I felt little tingles run down my spine, as I watched the layers come and go.
~most people don't usually change with the curtains drawn back, with nothing but a large french window between your privates and the great outdoors, but that false sense of privacy is exactly why you pay top dollar for a remote chalet in the Tuscan countryside~
In any case, I was quite happy given the present circumstances.
And before you ask, YES.
I did zoom in for a closer look.
Most guys would, given the chance.
For she had an exquisite body.
The sort of body that wouldn't just make most men break into a sweat, but the sort that would invariably land its owner in deep water (as seems the case here).
The sort of body that wouldn't just make most men break into a sweat, but the sort that would invariably land its owner in deep water (as seems the case here).
As I watched her walk out into the driveway, something made me want to change my very way of life, maybe find myself a nice mamacita, settle down somewhere sunny, restore an old '68 charger, hell, maybe even raise a family.
As that last thought soured in my mind, I decided it probably had something to do with the size of her breasts.
And her car.
Ooh, fancy women, and fancy cars.
Truly, a match made deep, deep down in the fires of hell.
A Maserati, a worthy example of Italian opulence, and their skill with cars.
Under its hood, lay a 4.7-litre V8, twin-turbo, with a 6-speed gearbox,the works.
You know me, couldn't help but check.
I really would have loved to hear her roar, but my thumb was already pressing down hard on the detonator in my hand.
Man, I hate my job.
