Cherry Pie

Right now, I was supposed to be in the city, laying back on the couch in my condo watching “Cherry Pie” peel her panties off for me. I was supposed to be spreading those pretty thighs and sinking every inch of my cock into that untouched, tight little cunt as she moaned for me. Instead? I’m pacing my room like a shut-in, slamming bourbon and trying to find something to dig into with this that might solve the problem.

But I’m coming up short.

Tonight—this whole thing with buying a girl’s virginity like that—it was all something new. I’ve been involved in The Society for years, but it was always other things that caught my fancy. Gambling on things most people don’t gamble on. The bareknuckle fights. A sprinkling of depravity here and there. Live sex shows, perhaps. But never anything more than watching. Even if I’ve been single—and happily so—basically since Amy was born

Karen, my ex-wife, ran off when Amy was barely six months old. One day she was here, and the next, she was just gone—off to find a guy who’d already “made it,” since I was still building my chops fresh out of the Navy. But then of course, I did make it. And I made it big. And of course, with the wealth came Karen, suddenly back and looking to “make amends” and “give it another shot.” And the thing is, if it’d just been about me, I might have had some sympathy. I wouldn’t have taken her back, but I’d have at least given a shit, even if it was just a little. But she hadn’t just left me. She’d left Amy, and that was over the line for me.

Even still—even after all of her bullshit, I’d offered to work out some partial, supervised visitation with her and Amy, even though she’d fucking abandoned her years before. But instead, Karen tried to fucking sue me. I know, big surprise. Turns out, she was after the money, not seeing her daughter again.

Needless to say, she lost, big time, and we haven’t seen or heard from her since.

I provide everything for my little girl. I’ve raised her myself, through all of it—bottles, teething, potty-training, first bikes, all of it. I did her hair, took her shopping, learned about the goddamn Disney princesses. All of it, without a single regret. Karen can go fuck herself.

But then, it’s not really Karen I’m thinking about tonight.

…It’s Kendall. Kendall girl-next-door, totally off-limits Shaw.

My jaw grinds as I whirl again, pacing back across the floor, my blood roaring in my ears. This never should have happened, but here we are. And here I am, hard as fuck. I shouldn’t be. I should be disgusted with myself, or horrified. Not turned the fuck on. Not aching for her. Not wanting her like I do.

The problem is, “Cherry Pie” might be Kendall Shaw from down the street. But before I knew that, she was everything I craved. I mean fuck, I’ve seen her strip down to her see-through bra and panties, giving me the faintest tease of those pert little nipples and that sweet little pussy. I’ve watched her touch herself. I watched her come. She’s watched me, too.

I’ve lusted after her. And now she’s right fucking here—in my house. Down the hall. For the whole fucking summer.

…This is very inconvenient.

I knock back another sip of bourbon, when suddenly, there’s a quiet knock at the bedroom door. I freeze, pulse roaring, my hand tightening on my glass as my eyes swivel towards the sound. The knock comes again, and I know damn well who it is.

I’m tempted to yell—to scare her away, even if I’ll hate myself for it. Because if scaring her keeps her away from me, so be it.

But I don’t. I can’t. And I know it’s because even if part of me wants to send her as far away from me as possible, there’s another part of me that disagrees. There’s the dark part of me—the part that wants to yank her against me, tear her fucking clothes off, and claim every damn inch of her.

The knock comes again, and with a final deep breath, I finish my drink.

“Come in,” I growl, turning towards the door. It opens, and when she steps in, my whole body tenses.

Fuck.

Part of me was hoping that knowing what I know now, I’d be able to turn off the attraction. I’d be able to shut it down, send her away, and somehow get the fuck through this summer with her under my roof. But the second she walks in?

Nope.

Kendall’s in frayed, tiny jean shorts and a tank top, her hair loose and tumbling over her bare shoulders. Her pouty pink lips glisten with some sort of gloss, and any damn thoughts I had of “sending her away” or “shutting this down” go up in fucking smoke. Because one look—one damn look at her, and instantly, I want her. And it very well might be worse now that I know. Now that I know how very inappropriate this is, and how wrong it is, and how off limits and young “Cherry Pie” really is.