Falling for My Dirty Uncle

“Such a dirty mouth on such a pretty girl,” I say.

She’s still nuzzling my neck, flicking her tongue along my earlobe, sending shivers up and down my spine all the way to my dick that’s still being massaged.

We stop at a light, and I take the opportunity to grab her head in one hand, crushing my mouth over hers. Only when our kiss is interrupted by the sound of an impatient New York driver honking from behind us do we come up for air.

I hit the gas, continuing on our way.

“You have no idea how dirty I can get,” she says, running her thumb up and down the length of my swollen dick, still encased in these fucking pants that feel more like a straightjacket than the bottom half of a handmade suit from the finest tailor in London.

“I think I have some idea, after your performance in that bedroom,” I remind her, continuing my own teasing.

This time, I dip a finger under her lace panties to feel the edge of her smoothly waxed cunt. She responds by pushing herself closer into my hand.

“Then let’s make it a repeat performance,” she says breathlessly.

As if I wasn’t horny enough for this little slut. Seeing her writhing beside me, yearning for my every touch, is making it difficult to keep a level head about our situation.

My desire takes over, and against every bit of my better judgment—which honestly, I’ve never been considered someone with an abundance of good judgment to begin with—I change lanes, turning left.

“Where are we heading?”

“My place, I guess,” I say, looking into her blue eyes darkened with lust.

“Good,” she purrs as the last of my defenses fall to her siren ways.

I’ve made a lot of bad decisions in my life, but all of them were made because there was some hedonistic benefit to be had. A mayor’s wife here, a councilman’s daughter there.

But this little minx beside me, who’s stroking my dick while I inch closer and closer to capturing her moist cunt in my hand, might just be my downfall.

And if I’m going down, I intend to enjoy every filthy, cum-covered moment.

Chapter 8

Mira

The door practically busts off of its hinges as I fly into Owen’s house. I can’t seem to land my focus on anything. Every detail of this house, significant or minor, speaks ‘fucking loaded.’

From the crown molding throughout the rooms, to the marble countertops and the ivory sculptures, there’s no mistaking Owen’s wealth. And with that being so abundantly clear, I no longer want to fuck the daylights out of him; I want to get to know him.

I want to know what makes him tick and what lifts him up. And I’m dying to know what his upbringing was like.

God. He must have been born into all of this. He and Carl are siblings, of course, so that would make the most sense.

I’m so fascinated as I start fixating on various pieces of decor. There’s custom storage pieces, portraits, personal photos—woah. Personal photos.

Like pictures of Owen on vacation in what I can only assume to be the tropics. I grab the picture and bring it close to my face, scanning down that tight six pack and focusing hard on that sexy ‘V’ his hips cut into.

Motherfucker, why does this guy have to be so hot?

“Mira?” I hear him call out from behind me.

I gulp down the saliva that’s been pooling in my mouth. I turn to him as he studies what’s in my hands.

“What do you have there?”

“Oh, nothing,” I reply, setting the picture back down. “I was just wandering a bit, admiring your gorgeous house. I saw this photo and was trying to figure out where you were. Bahamas?”

“Hawaii, actually,” he corrects me. “Have you ever been?”