Falling for My Dirty Uncle

Hmm, let’s see. My hot step-niece stumbling out of my penthouse with her tits practically falling out of her dress? Honestly, even if I weren’t famous, it’s not a good look for a burgeoning young CEO—or anyone for that matter.

“Not unless you want to go the Kim Kardashian route,” I say as I peer out the window.

Ugh, the paparazzi are like roaches. Disgusting roaches who probably like to jerk off to all the pictures they take of me and hot young girls that stumble out of my penthouse so early in the morning

I won’t let those vermin treat Mira like that.

“What am I going to do?” She pouts against the counter, leaning forward so that I get a peek down her dress. Was that intentional?

“I have an idea.” I smirk at her. “I can give you a change of clothes so that you don’t stumble out of here looking like some,” I shrug, “slut.”

“Slut?” She crosses her arms in fake anger. “I don’t like that word.”

“Why’s that?” I take a sip of my coffee, never taking my eyes off her. I love watching her get pretend-mad.

“Because if there’s a slut in this room, it’s definitely you, Mr. Cakeilingus.”

I grasp my chest, pretending to be shock-offended, then I turn to her and smile. “You’re very clever, Miss Mira.”

She shrugs. “I guess it runs in the family. Our family.”

I feel a weird twitch go up my spine when she says this. I look at her face and see a flick of excitement. I shrug, shaking the whole moment off.

“Let me see if I have something for you to wear.”

I head to my bedroom and open my massive walk-in closet. My shirts are organized by designer, color, cut, and style, each one shrink-wrapped by the cleaners. It keeps them fresh. I grab one of my cheaper Hugo Boss shirts and head back to the kitchen.

I toss her the shirt and laugh as she barely catches it. The shirt flops around in her hands, back and forth, before she gets a firm grip on the plastic.

“Like aiming things at my face, huh?”

I grin deviously. “That’s an understatement.”

She turns the shirt around in her hands like it’s something foreign and odd.

“Is this shirt brand new?” she asks. “You just keep a bunch of brand new shirts stockpiled in your closet, Batman?”

“Maybe,” I smirk, letting her believe the fantasy.

She jumps off the counter she was sitting on, and, right there in the middle of the kitchen, takes off her dress. Her tits bounce all wild and free, as if they were just waiting to escape.

Her boldness surprises me, though it shouldn’t be since she almost stripped for me last night. Sure, she might be a little young, but this is no girl. No fucking way.

She squeezes out of her dress, swaying her hips from side to side as it slides down. Once the dress is on the floor, she kicks it with one foot, sending the dress sliding across the floor.

I grab the kitchen counter, bracing myself. Is she playing games with me? Because she really shouldn’t if she knows what she’s doing to me right now.

You have no idea how hard I just want to pounce on every inch of her. How badly I just want to bury my face into her tits until I fucking smother myself and die.

As my eyes go from the dress—now nothing but a piece of crumbled cloth—back to her, I see her in all her perfection.

Well, sort of.

She turns her back towards me as she unbuttons the dress shirt I gave her. As I stare daggers into her back, my eyes traveling down to see her perfect ass, she turns around and eyes me over her shoulder.

She giggles. Giggles!

“Don’t look!”