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Long, dark lashes curled on her cheeks, tears all gone. White hair and dark lashes?
    He’d prioritized what he needed to do to get the house straight, but now he had something different at the top of that list. Get rid of the squatter. So he needed to search out the documents relating to the purchase of the house and, failing that, details about the lawyers. Except there was something even more urgent than that. Turner went straight to his bedroom, locked the door, leaned back against it and unfastened his pants. His strangled cry of relief sounded overloud in his ears but was short-lived. Now that he’d given his cock room to breathe, it hardened, lengthened and insisted on attention.
    Turner wrenched off his clothes on the way to the shower and dropped them in an untidy trail. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt as desperate to jack off to the image of a particular woman. He grabbed a bottle of shower gel from an open box as he passed and stepped into the curved glass cubicle. Turner welcomed the icy blast, hoping it would dampen his ardor, but the water warmed up fast.
    With eyes shut or eyes open, Matty’s face filled his head. No need to conjure up a face from his past, a white-haired home intruder worked just fine. Turner squirted gel onto his hand and dragged his fist up from his balls, a slow pull along the length of his cock to bring his foreskin over his crest. He groaned and leaned back against the shower wall, repeating the action with his fist until he was milking more and more pre-cum.
    Torn between needing fast and wanting it slow, Turner twisted his hand around and, catching the sensitive cock head with his palm, he pushed his fist down to finish at his balls.
    Those tiny ears.
    Two hands, one above the other, pumping and squeezing.
    Eyelashes as dark as his but longer.
    Turner clasped his balls and tightened his hold as he used his other hand to stroke the swollen veins of his cock.
    That tantalizing gap between her lips.
    He fisted himself faster and tighter with one hand, and reached with his other to tease his anus. One finger sliding in the cleft of his buttocks to press against the puckered ring, and he grunted in pleasure.
    Breasts made for his mouth.
    Turner gasped as his finger slid inside up to the webbing. His hands worked in unison, teasing, tightening, thrusting until he felt the beast coming, racing toward him, hooves pounding, dark mouth widening to swallow him whole. Orgasm started in his head—maybe a few feet higher than that through a layer of plaster and floorboards—and roared down his spine to bathe his balls in liquid fire. His cum seethed, boiled and overflowed to shoot down his cock and spray onto the glass wall opposite.
    His breathy cries echoed in the shower stall as he emptied himself in long, wrenching spasms. Turner watched the streaks of his cum slide down the glass. He sighed. He could think of a better home. Somewhere warm and snug.
    He washed the shower then himself, and switched off the water. Turner stuck out his hand, waiting for the towel until he remembered two things—George wasn’t there and Turner hadn’t yet found the box with the bath towels.
    Shit.
    * * * * *
    Matty woke with a crushing pain in her chest and air locked tight in her lungs. She struggled to sit and then fought to breathe while white dots danced in front of her eyes. Her fists clenched and she shook. Then with one deep gulp, oxygen rushed in and her world righted itself—only to tip and fall over with a crash when she looked to her left.
    Her bedside light—not that it cast much light—was on. She hadn’t left it on. She never did. It was a habit borne of blowing out the candle before she went to sleep during the period when there’d been no electricity supply. Matty looked around but nothing seemed to have been disturbed. Her mess was still a mess. Maybe she was wrong and she had left the light on. But the sense of unease remained.
    She turned the clock so she could see the