She’s scared, I can fucking feel it—eyes wide, breathing quick. But she doesn’t fight me. Instead she hooks her legs around behind my hips, leans in, and slides her tongue up my jaw.

  “Yes.” She breathes the word into my neck then looks back at me with a challenge in her eyes.

  I kiss her hard, mean, my tongue right down her sweet little throat. She tastes like heaven and she kisses like a fucking angel. So sweet, so tender. I hate her for it. And I hate that she won’t be this sweet for long, either. Not if I’ve got anything to do with it.

  I sweep her tongue aside and kiss her deeper, meaner, more possessive. Because this sweet little piece of ass is mine. And it always has been. Always will be.

  I pull away from the kiss, her cheeks reddened with my stubble. I yank her dress hard, ripping the thin fabric, pulling her tits free. God, her motherfucking nipples. Oval, pink, so young and sweet and new.

  I suck hard on the left one, drawing it into a tight ball between my teeth. She hisses, lets her head drop, hanging onto my shoulders with her hands.

  For a second, I zoom out. Me. And Jess. On my fucking dining table. Together.

  The wrongness of it all sets something off inside me. I pull her closer, almost fucking angry with her. Because fuck this little thing for screwing with my head. Fuck this little girl for making a mess out of what is right and what is wrong.

  “How fucking dare you,” I growl into her ear.

  “How dare I what?”

  “How dare you be so fucking perfect.”

  She pulls back a little then, eyes glinting, hair loose down her back, nipples tight and hard. I lean in and bite that tender place where her bikini had been, the line between sun-kissed and purely white.

  I look up at her as I do it. Her cheeks flush, dark pink to red. Her eyes shift back and forth between mine, like she isn’t sure where to focus. “This is crazy. Crazy.”

  “You’ll never get me to stop. Not now. Not ever.”

  Fear fills her expression. In that moment, I see just how young she is. And it makes me want to possess her, keep her, have her, make her mine. Lock her away forever. For me. For being my everything.

  Keeping her close with my hand at the small of her back, I unzip my pants. Because I can’t fucking take this anymore. I have to be inside her. It’s a fucking biological imperative. This cock. That pussy. Now.

  She gasps as my cock springs free, the tip pressing against the cotton crotch of her panties.

  “Mike. Wait. Wait a minute.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Now it’s not just fear, it’s terror in her eyes. Because I know what I’m packing and it’s no fucking joke.

  “Will I be your first?” I ask, pretty sure I know the answer because Sam would have told me otherwise. At least I fucking hope he would have then that thought sinks in, knowing I probably would have murdered anyone that tried.

  Or suceeeded.

  “Answer me.” I bark. “Has anyone else touched you? Fucked what’s mine?”

  She swallows hard enough for me to hear the gulp. “Yes. I mean no. I mean…No one has touched me and yes, you will be my first.”

  “Good. Your first and only.” I take my dick in my hand, stroking the length, pushing the tip against her panties, feeling her wetness against the head.

  I nudge upwards, compressing her clit under the fabric. I shift her skirt aside to get a better look. Gripping my cock, the head crushed tight between my first finger and thumb, I shift aside her panties, push her pussy lips open, and tease her clit with my dick.

  She sucks in a breath, and I feel her relax into me. “Oh my god.”

  Fuck. I have no idea if that’s new to her too, but I know I have to go slow. Slower than I want. Slower than I need. But I’ll do it. For her? Anything for her.

  I knit my hand into her beautiful red hair and draw her neck back, opening her throat to me, to my tongue and my teeth and lips. On her skin, I taste her perfume, but under that I taste the saltiness of her sweat. The smell of her pussy wafts up as I nudge her clit with my dick, making my fucking head spin.

  She moans as I work my cock against her clit, drawing the pleasure out of her. “What are you going to do to me?” Her voice is thick, sweet, dark with need.

  My cheek to hers, savoring her, finally bringing her close. I jack off slowly into her clit, wishing—fucking wishing—I were inside her already. But not yet. Not fucking yet. I dip into her opening, just a little, to moisten the tip and her body shudders in response.

  “Your job now is to let go for me, Jess. Let me see you cum. Give it to me. Don’t you dare fucking hold back.”

  With my hand to the back of her neck, I tip her face up and kiss her hard as I work my length against her tight little clit. Every move, ever gesture she makes helps me learn her, memorize her, fucking know her and her pleasure.

  I guide my cock back down toward her opening, teasing her and making her squirm. And I fucking like that—the power. The power to take her right here, right now. To pop her cherry just like this.

  I tighten my grip on the back of her neck, digging my finger into her cheek.

  “Good girl, angel. Give me that orgasm. Feel how hard you make this dick.”

  She paws for my cock, my balls, my thighs, frantic for more pressure, more intensity. With a shift of my hips, I change position, sliding the shaft up her slit, keeping pressure right there where she needs it.

  She moans out a messy little whine. “Oh my god.”

  I feel her thighs tighten, quiver, tense.

  “Atta fucking girl,” I growl into her ear, stroking myself harder, getting closer with every breath she takes. “Give me what’s mine, Jess. Cum all over this dick. Don’t pretend like you haven’t been thinking about this, too.”

  She shudders out a groan. “I have. God, I have.”

  I kiss her again, slow and deep. “I know. So do it. Right now.”

  I stroke harder, more violently, jacking off in a rage against her pussy. I’m one fucking centimeter from being inside her, and I hate that I’m too good a man to fuck her now like this.

  “Cum for me or I’m taking that cherry, whether you want me to or not.”

  She hangs onto tight, and her wetness thickens, coming out in creamy drips, sliding down her folds and onto the table below.

  “There you go. That’s right,” I said, encouraging her as I pump my cock again and again against her. I feel my cum building in my balls. I’m close, but she goes first. Always.

  “Give me that orgasm, little girl. Right now.”

  She lets her head drop, presses her forehead against my shoulder. I pull her close, keep her safe, protected, sheltered. And whisper, “Cum for me, Jess. Now.”

  She looks up at me, eyes glazed—beautiful, dreamy, high on us. “I’m gonna...”

  I nod down at her. I press a kiss to her forehead. I feel her body shudder and buck. “That’s fucking right.”

  She grips my shoulders hard, her little hands strong but powerful and so fucking intense. “You’re going to make me....”

  I tighten my grip on my dick and imagine shooting my cum up into her body. Into her womb. “Do it, right now. Cum with me. Now.”

  “Oh Mike, I’m…”

  Her cheeks flush with anew shade of red, and my orgasm roars up through my balls and my cock. As soon as the first spurt of my cum hits her clit, she’s coming too.

  She pulls me in close, biting down hard on my shoulder as she comes and comes and comes. And I bath her fucking pussy in so much cum, I might as well be a teenager again. Holy mother of fucks.

  “Such a good little girl,” I growl at her. I double-down on myself, jacking off so hard that my balls feel like they’re about to fucking explode.

  My cum shoots out all over her cunt, her lower belly, her thighs. “You’re mine now,” I growl as I’m coming. “All fucking mine.”

  “All yours,” she pants, her body bucking with the last aftershocks of her orgasm.

  Fuck. Fuck. I wrap her up in my arms, keeping her close and tight and safe. Our breathing slows together, I press my nose to her hair. And inhale the scent of her shampoo.

  Slowly, very fucking slowly, the lust-haze of the last half hour starts to clear.

  And I realize what I just did.

  My job, now and always, is to take care of her. Her dad trusted her with me, her mom trusted her with me. And now she’s a fucking puddle of cum and sweat on my dining room table. So young.

  I have never hated myself more.

  I step away, pulling up my pants. She reaches out for me, eyes wide, accepting hopeful. But I shake my head. There is no universe in which this is a good idea.

  “That was a fucking mistake,” I tell her.

  And then I turn and force myself to walk away, from this, from us, from her—before I do something that we’ll both regret. Forever.

  CHAPTER 6

  Jess

  My phone buzzing on the beside table wakes me up from a half-doze. It’s after dawn, but not much. The light is low and the birds are chirping and I’m pretty sure I just heard the garbage truck go by. But I hardly slept at all, thinking about Mike, thinking about us, thinking about last night. About the fireworks between us. And the way I came. And the way he came. But then how he…

  Mistake. Mistake. Mistake.

  My heart constricts painfully, thinking about the way he turned his back on me. It didn’t feel like a mistake to me—it felt like heaven at the time. But the fact that he thinks it is just makes me almost sick.

  My eyes start to blur with tears, but I take a deep breath and shake it off. No point crying over it. Not again. Not yet.

  My phone whirrs again and I paw for it, annoyed. Unsurprisingly, it’s my mom. And it’s 6:17am, which means two whole minutes after I’m supposed to be awake.

  For a few rings, I just stare at the screen in defiance, wondering what would happen if I toss my phone out into the bushes and pretend she doesn’t exist at all.

  But I’m too much of a goodie-two shoes for that. And so I dutifully hit the accept button. “Hi, Mom. How’s the IRS stuff going?”

  “Rise and shine!” she chirps into my ear ignoring my question. There’s something about the way she says it that confirms she’s had at least two cups of coffee already. Black. With a small bowl containing exactly 3.5 ounces of plain Greek yogurt. Rock and roll.

  “Morning.” I snuggle back into the sheets, inhaling the scent of the detergent, which isn’t the detergent at home, but is almost like home. Even better than home, really. And suddenly I get a flash of Mike washing laundry. And in my hazy morning lazy unrested brain, I flash to a fantasy of him washing baby bibs and a onesie and a little blanket decorated with tiny blue whales.

  Michael Dean Hawthorne, Jr. your son…

  “Oh my god, I’m losing it,” I mutter.

  “You are not, young lady! You are not losing that first chair position. Not if I have anything to do with it. Now tell me the plan for the day. Twenty-minute increments. Go.”

  I stare up at the ceiling, at the pretty light fixture that I remember Mike installing. A linen drum shade with a frosted glass base.

  “Can’t I just share a Google Doc with you after I’ve peed or something, Mom? Do we have to do this now?”

  I hear her gel nails clatter nervously on at tabletop. “Paganini isn’t going to practice himself, young lady.”

  I find myself laughing a little. It sounded vaguely dirty somehow. “Alright, alright.”

  “So because I knew you wouldn’t have your day planned yet, here’s the schedule I put together for you today,” Mom says, and launches in. Around about the time she starts determining the exact number of ounces of oatmeal I can eat with breakfast, I drop my phone on the pillow, without putting it on speaker. It dulls her shrillness just enough to make it bearable.

  But it also means that now, I can hear Mike’s footsteps down the hall, in the master bath. The sound of running water. A toothbrush. The click of a doorknob.

  My heart shoots into my throat, and I swear my pulse goes from 65 beats per minutes to 165. From adagio to presto, because of his freakin’ footsteps. Great.

  I grab a pillow and stuff it over my face, resisting the very real urge to scream and scream. I want him. I need him. And he thinks it was a mistake. What the heck am I going to do?

  “Are you listening, young lady?” I hear my mom snap.

  I pull the pillow off my face just far enough to say, “Yep. Taking notes. Really appreciate this, Mom. You have no idea.”

  And off she goes with her scheduling insanity again.

  I rub my fingertips hard against my eyebrows, hard enough to make it hurt a little, to help wake me up. Then, on the other end of the line, I hear my mom saying, “No, you cannot talk to her. I haven’t even gotten to lunch, and what about practice, Ben? What about practice?”

  “Oh for Chrissake, Janet,” my dad grumbles. “Give me the damned phone. Go take a walk around the block or something. You’re making my ulcer flare.”

  I fumble for it quickly, putting it to my ear. “Dad. Hi.”

  He inhales slowly. “You okay? I feel a tremor in the force.”

  I blink up at the ceiling. “Yeah. I’m just…” Lovesick. Distracted. Horny. Needy. Lost. “… nervous.”

  My dad sips his coffee, which I happen to know is light and sweet and utterly delicious. Like a donut in a cup. “You’re going to be fine, sweetheart. No matter what. How about I talk to Mike, real quick.”

  I glance at the door. “I’m still in bed, Dad. Why don’t you just call him?”

  “I tried, but he’s got it on Do Not Disturb.”

  I growl into the pillow and then roll out of bed. I get a quick glance of myself in the mirror. Do I look cute? Is an old 2019 Carolina Youth Symphony tank and mismatched girl-boxers cute? I have no clue. At all.

  Mistake.

  It doesn’t matter.

  I place my hand on the knob, open the door, and almost drop my phone.

  Because there’s Mike. Waiting. Looking dreamy, and sexy, and vaguely like he’s been eavesdropping on my every word. Which I find extremely hot, for reasons I can’t even begin to puzzle together this early in the day.

  Everything about him pulls me powerfully toward him. Like a magnet. Like I’m a moon in his orbit. His jawline, his eyes, the way his muscles ripple under his tee-shirt. And I don’t even begin to look below his beltline. I’m dimly aware of gym shorts. I’m such a goner.

  My face flushes hot, and I realize there’s a very real possibility I have those awful little makeup globs in the corners of my eyes. I shove my phone toward him.

  “My dad. For you,” I say, and spin away, stomping back to bed, rubbing my eyes as I do.

  He clicks his tongue to get my attention and I shoot a glance back at him. And for one beautiful second, he holds my gaze, looking protective. And handsome. And apologetic.

  And it just makes my whole entire body ache.

  But his words from last night ring clear and nasty in my ears. That was a fucking mistake. I snap my gaze away from him and stomp back toward the bed. But I’ve barely begun to move before he grabs my hand, yanks me toward him, and shoves me powerfully up against the wall.

  Whoosh goes the air from my lungs. And when I suck in a new breath, it’s all him. Soap, and cologne, and his delicious masculine warmth underneath.

  “Yeah, Ben, I’m here,” Mike says, grinding against my hips with his rock-hard cock, with his thighs, with his power. I suppress a groan, desperate not to let my dad hear, and desperate not to let Mike know just how much I want him.

  “She’s good. You know that. Don’t let Janet’s bullshit wind you up, yeah? Just focus on your issues there and man, if you need me to help with anything…”

  I hear my dad talking on the other end of the line. The tone shifts, now to work. Something something settlement, something something liability.

  Mike makes all the right noises, says all the right yeahs and nos. But he’s as distracted by me as I was by him when I was on the phone with my mom earlier. This thing between us, it is all-consuming. It is so intense that it makes it hard to even breathe.

  Mistake. I avert my eyes, feeling angry and rejected, furious still, but he tries to distract me with soft touches of his rough fingers on my cheek. As soon as he touches me, my pussy gushes with wetness. My heartbeat becomes clearer; I can feel it behind my eyes, in my fingertips, in my belly.

  He cages me in tighter, slipping his free hand down my body. Down my stomach, past my waistband. But for as much as I want him, for as desperate as I am for his touch, I am also so stinking angry. How dare he make me cum, how dare he cum for me, and then leave me standing in his freaking dining room, with my heart on my sleeve, feeling vulnerable and ashamed. What an ass.

  I snatch his hand away and shake my head, setting my teeth. No, I mouth at him. No.

  That word, it ignites something in him. I can feel his body change, his intensity strengthens. Like I’ve said the thing he never wanted to hear. Or maybe that he always needed to hear.

  And then Mike locks eyes with me. Angry now. Livid.

  Dangerous.

  Wetness spills from inside me. I like the danger. I like this fear. Maybe it’s because I’ve led a sheltered life. Maybe it’s because I’m a stupid little girl who doesn’t know what to do with a man like him.

  But either way, I’m afraid. Desperately afraid of what comes next. Because I’ve pissed him off now. And I can just feel I’m about to pay for it.

  “I gotta go, man,” Mike says, all dark and growly. “I’ve got a fucking situation unfolding here. And it’s going require my full attention.”

  He ends the call, tossing his phone onto my bed. And as he does, in that split-second when he’s shifted his eyes away from me, I shove him away with all my strength...

  …and run.

  I make it out of the guest bedroom, but I’m so nervous, so scared that he’ll catch me that I take a right instead a left, and before I know it, I’m in the master bedroom.

  I circle around to the other side of the master bedroom, and he circles the bed, too.

  “How dare you fucking run from me.”