Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80834 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 404(@200wpm)___ 323(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“That was a good game,” I say in a soft tone.
“It was,” he rasps, blue eyes so dark they’re almost black. “You’re a very naughty girl, you know that, Eliza?”
I smile saucily.
“I know.”
Jack’s eyes darken.
“Naughty girls get punished. Hard. Did you know that as well?”
This time, I’m the one who’s surprised. I stare at the alpha male, pink pout parted, but then my dad interrupts.
“Goddamn Kentucky,” Gerald snarls. “Fuck ‘em. Wait until next year.” Then, my dad plops down in his La-Z-Boy again, arms crossed with a sulky expression on his face.
Meanwhile, I merely shrug at Jack and then clear the snack bowls, taking everything into the kitchen. Dad’s in the living room, still snarling at the screen, but Jack wanders into the kitchen with me, his hands shoved in his pockets.
I walk up behind him and put my hand on his arm. He turns, and I can see it—the need, the desire, the hunger to claim.
“I’ve thought about it, and I want to be punished, Uncle Jack,” I whisper. “By you.”
He lets out a low noise from deep in his chest, his expression ravenous. “You’re going to ruin me, you know that?”
I smile coquettishly. “But isn’t that what you want too?”
His answer is just a look up and down my curves, searing them with heat as I gush moistly between my thighs. Then, he’s out the back door, leaving me on my own.
Later, as I get ready for bed, I check my phone. There’s a message from an unknown number:
“Next time, we do this somewhere no one can walk in. - J”
I reply: Tomorrow. Riverside Café. 2pm. Nobody from St. Cloud goes there.
I hit send, then spend the next hour spiraling through every possible outcome: Jack kissing me in broad daylight, Jack telling me it can never happen, Jack showing up and not being able to keep his hands off me. The uncertainty is delicious, every possible disaster more exciting than the last.
I’m vibrating with anticipation, every nerve still tuned to the feel of the older man’s hands on my waist, his huge form beneath mine, the way his mouth tasted when he finally gave in. What will it feel like when he kisses me down there? OMG, how can I even be thinking this? I’m such a bad girl!
There’s a full-length mirror across from the bed, and I catch my own reflection: hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes wide. I look like someone who just got away with a felony and is already plotting the next one, but it’s a good feeling. I roll onto my back, hugging my pillow, reliving every hot, forbidden second. I’m so riled up, in fact, that I know what I have to do. There’s only one thing that can soothe me after the events of the afternoon.
Getting up, I pad to the locked case in my closet, and begin pulling out my ring lamp and camera. Oooh, this is so bad but my customers need attention too, and camming is the only thing that will relieve the ache between my legs. Why not kill two birds with one stone? Within moments, I’m set up and clad only in bits of lacy lingerie, pressing the green record button as my customers log on.
“Hi boys,” I coo with a coquettish smile at my laptop screen. “Did you miss me?”
Then, we’re up, up, and away as the tips start rolling in … but in the back of my mind, there’s only one man watching.
4
CHAPTER 4 – CROSSING THE LINE
Eliza
There are three ways to walk into a coffee shop for a date with your dad’s best friend, and I pick the one that involves sunglasses, a deeply strategic amount of cleavage, and pretending like this is the most normal Sunday of my adult life. Lakeville is far enough from St. Cloud that nobody in here recognizes me, and that’s exactly why I picked it. There are too many sets of parental eyes back home, and too much potential for high-stakes gossip.
Not that this is the type of place Gerald and Nancy would ever go to because the Riverside Café is a shrine to exposed brick and weird art, every table a different species of thrift-store orphan. There’s a spinning wire rack by the counter labeled “ZINES & MANIFESTOS,” and the kid at the register sports a haircut so aggressive that I wonder if it took an entire tube of hair gel. The air is aromatic with the scent of powerful espresso, probably due to the underlying note of desperation from the med-school crowd cramming in the corner.
I’m in my favorite milkmaid dress which is a style that only came into vogue recently. It’s demure, with a blue bodice and long skirt, but the innocence only goes so far. The décolletage is cut just low enough to highlight my big breasts, and the fabric hugs my body in a way that’s supposed to read innocent, but is actually “naughty farm girl.” Which is the whole point because that’s the effect I want. Underneath, I’m wearing matching powder-blue lingerie that cups my giant tits and bisects my ivory cheeks, but Jack has no idea. I hope he gets a chance to take it off me at some point, though.