Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
I forced my voice neutral: “Is that your daughter?”
Jeannine met my eyes with a look I’d later come to recognize as crafty, although she disguised it immediately. She held the silence for a beat longer than most would, then shrugged. “Yes, that’s my daughter, Mary Kate,” she said, like she was testing me somehow. “Graduating next year. Wants to go to college out East. I keep telling her, she’ll just get herself in trouble.” Another laugh. But this one wasn’t for the Pro Shop manager. It was just for me.
Even then, Jeannine knew. She knew I was desperately attracted to her daughter, and would do almost anything to have her.
The negotiations began slow though. I had money and a pedigree, and Jeannine wanted what all practical women want: a house, an end to worry, maybe a shot at climbing the social ladder a rung or two before her looks gave out and the ladder burned. I provided her that, and in return she gave me what I wanted, which was Mary Kate. Not in the biblical sense—never that, not until the girl was legal, not until even the fantasy had taken on the ring of inevitability. But from the start, Jeannine understood the contours of the deal. She’s a smart woman. She knew what she was getting into, and wanted it as badly as I did. Maybe more.
So I opened my wallet. I paid for Jeannine and Mary Kate. I footed the bill for tuition, clothes, the bric-a-brac that filled every corner of my new wife’s existence, and moved them into my mansion. It was hell living in close quarters with the young woman, but I kept my distance. It was too early, and she wasn’t ready. So I waited. I waited longer than I thought I would, longer than most men in my position ever do. But waiting only made it sharper.
Now, she’s down the hall, and the years of patience are at an end. No more rehearsals. No more of Jeannine’s careful surveillance, the constant little tests, the transactional hugs, the way she would watch me whenever her daughter was in the room, looking for proof of what she already knew. It’s just the two of us now, in this big, echoing house. The rest of the world has no idea what’s about to happen. Of the depravity I’m about to unload on the lovely young brat.
Mary Kate’s footsteps pause just outside the door. I imagine her standing there, adjusting her clothes, maybe running a hand through her hair, shaking it loose. The vision of her is so vivid it brings back another memory: I remember the first time I saw Mary Kate in a swimsuit, remember the way my jaw clenched so hard I thought I’d crack a molar. She was gorgeous in a tiny yellow polka-dot bikini, and totally unaware that I was sporting a hard-on at the grill. Instead, MK was so innocent back then that she actually splashed me with some pool water, and then climbed out and asked me to spread tanning oil on her back. I mumbled my excuses, and beat feet back into the house asap. I wanted to caress every inch of her ivory skin with my fingers, but back then, I was still under control. I wouldn’t touch the gorgeous brat until the time was right.
Now, the time to claim is here. Three quick knocks, barely more than a tap. The kind of knock you use when you want to be caught but need plausible deniability.
“Come in,” I say, and the voice that emerges is lower than I intend.
The door opens and the games have begun.
The young woman steps inside, dressed in gray sweatpants and a Century College hoodie that looks about three sizes too large, sleeves bunched up around her elbows, hair in a sheet of gold down her back. Her feet are bare. The effect is somewhere between college co-ed and exiled princess, and it lands like a fist to the chest because she’s so goddamned beautiful, even in shapeless sweats.
But things are different this time because I’m not sitting at my desk, waiting patiently for her arrival. Instead, I’m sitting on the edge of the massage table, fully naked, erection twitching in time with my pulse. She gasps upon seeing me, eyes widening until they’re enormous, but I make no attempt to cover myself, not anymore. I want to pick up the speed of our interactions, and it seems Mary Kate agrees. The beautiful blonde glances at my body, then at the neat array of oil bottles on the credenza, then at me—her gaze direct, hungry. The air between us hums with a voltage of awareness, supercharged within thirty seconds.
She sets her phone on the corner of the desk, and then, without waiting for instructions, reaches for the hem of her hoodie. She pulls it up in a single, practiced move, the fabric catching for a moment at her chest before releasing, her breasts jiggling slightly underneath. There’s a pink bra today, a little lacy number that cups and lifts her Double D’s in a way that makes my cock twitch. She drops the hoodie to the chair, then pushes the sweat pants down and off, bending to step out of them, a flash of pale thigh and ass framed by the high-cut panties.