Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Damn, I said I was losing it, and obviously, I was right.
Then I hear it: the telltale ding of the elevator, the soft, eager shuffle of feet outside the door. My heart leaps into my throat even as I try to quell my excitement. I smile and kill the scotch in one mouthful, letting the burn scrub my throat clean.
When she knocks, I take my time opening the door. Let her sweat for a second. Let her wonder if maybe I’m not going to answer at all, if maybe she should just turn around and flee. But she doesn’t. Kayleigh is nothing if not stubborn.
I pull the door open.
My innocent stepsister stands there, a vision in white and blonde and panic. The dress is a white bandage mini that looks poured onto her, the neckline a steep, lascivious V that divides her cleavage all the way to the solar plexus. It’s not a dress so much as a suggestion. Her skin glows against the fabric, especially the inside of her thighs, which are bare and golden. She’s gone braless, obviously, and unless I miss my guess, she’s ditched the panties too—there’s no seam, no ridge, nothing but the faintest shadow of the dress clinging to the delta between her legs. Her heels are tall, and dizzyingly steep, with thin white straps that wrap around her ankles like a lover’s hands. Holy shit, what a pair of fuck me shoes.
But there’s something innocent about her too. Kayleigh’s hair is done in loose, soft waves, tumbling over her bare shoulders, and her makeup is heavier than usual: smoky eyes, high color on her cheeks, lips lacquered a hyper-gloss pink. She’s gone for maximum impact and, because of the playacting, she doesn’t look anything like herself. Or maybe she looks more like herself than ever before. It’s hard to say, but I happen to adore the tramp look, so it works.
For a moment, she just stands there, arms at her sides, hands clutching a small white purse. Her chin is down, but her gaze is up, blue and wary.
I feel my cock stir in my pants. It’s instant, primal, a chemical reaction as old as the species.
“Hi,” she says, voice barely audible.
I don’t smile. I step aside, let her enter. The perfume hits me a second after she does—something vanilla, with an undercurrent of sharp citrus, maybe lemon or grapefruit. Oh shit. My cock twitches again.
She steps into the penthouse, each heel click a little too loud in the silence. The city lights turn her hair platinum and paint her bare arms with shifting lines of white and neon. She hesitates in the entry, uncertain what to do with herself.
I close the door and lock it behind us.
“You’re early,” I say, not a question.
Kayleigh shrugs, the motion nearly invisible in the tight dress. “Traffic wasn’t as bad as I thought.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You drove yourself? In that?”
She blushes, which is what I wanted. “I changed in the car after I parked,” she says, eyes darting away. “There was no walk of shame. I mean, not really,” she stammers. “Just through your lobby, but I figure your doorman’s seen everything.”
I stalk past her, headed to the wet bar, even as I speak.
“Actually, it’s funny you say that because I love when girls do the walk of shame. I don’t think it’s shameful at all, actually. It’s an homage to a night of wild fucking, hopefully with a handsome motherfucker with a big dick. So what’s so shameful about that?”
Kayleigh’s followed me into the living room, her cheeks scarlet.
“Well, I think it’s easy for guys to say, but for girls it’s a little different. We’re judged differently.”
I grin. “Well, I think we may be discussing a moot point because you’re a virgin, so you’ve never done the walk of shame. Am I right? Or have you?”
She blushes even more tomato, if that’s possible.
“No,” she says in a small whisper. “I haven’t.”
I grin again.
“That’s what a thought. So, tell me, can I offer you a drink, Kayleigh? Or are you old enough?” I jest.
She rolls her eyes, perching on the edge of the white leather sofa, knees locked together, hands clutching the little purse in her lap. “Yes, I’m old enough and I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
I pour her a scotch, but cut it with water. She’s small, and she’s probably already nervous. I don’t want to knock her out.
She accepts the glass with both hands, then sips and nearly chokes.
I watch her over the rim of my own glass, letting the silence expand. I know she hates being embarrassed like this, so I drag it out, watching the blush creep from her chest to her cheeks.
She sets the glass down, fingers trembling just a little. “So yeah, alcohol and I don’t mix that well. Well, hard alcohol at least. By the way, your place is amazing,” she manages, and gestures at the view.