Sweet Thing (Naughty Things 2)

Then I’m gonna sink my mouth down over her nipples, and play with her pussy until her underwear is all wet, and then…

I come. All over my slacks.

And I realize that it wasn’t a fantasy.

It was a plan.

I wake in the morning to the sound of my phone ringing.

“Hello?” I ask, my voice rough and deep from sleep. I was up for hours jerking off to the memory of sweet, young Aria. I don’t think I’ve jerked off that many times in one night since I was fourteen.

“Mr. North? This is Mr. Garcia at the co-op?”

“Yes,” I say, forcing myself to concentrate.

“We have another interested party and we’re eager to sell this unit, so if you could get your loan—“

“I’ll be there in an hour with cash.”

“Oh,” he says. “OK. Very well. I’ll get the paperwork ready.”

“Thank you,” I say, and end the call.

I’m not going in so I can see her.

I’m not.

And it turns out I’m not. Because she’s not there. Everyone else is there. Apparently Saturday mornings are when the artists come out. Because every glass cube is busy… except one.

Aria’s. Which is three down from mine and on the opposite side of the hall.

I peek into it as I walk by, trying to get a glimpse of what goes on in there. It’s her sister’s, I get that. But she said she was using it for Photoshop or something.

“Right this way,” Garcia says, panning his hand into the board room.

And an hour later, I’ve sent a hundred and ninety-five thousand dollars to the co-op account and he’s handing me the keys.

“Nine PM to two AM,” he reminds me.

“Got it,” I say.

“Welcome to the co-op, Mr. North. I hope your time here is satisfying.”

“Thank you,” I say, then meander down to my cube and open it up.

There’s some shelves on the wall, but that’s it. The last person in here was another musician, so it’s just empty space now.

“When do you think you’ll be moving in?” Garcia asks from the hallway.

“Tomorrow night,” I say. Because it’s Aria Amherst’s birthday and I have a big, fat cock as her present.

“Very good,” he says. And I almost laugh. If he only knew what I was thinking. “I’ll let everyone know that if they want to work at night they can’t complain about the drums.”

“Appreciate it,” I say. “And thanks again. I think my time here at the co-op is gonna be… fun.”

Ozzy calls later that day asking if I want to go to a club with him and some girls he met last night, but I tell him no. I have to get my drum kit ready for moving.

But I don’t do that. It’s not even set up in my apartment. It’s down in my storage locker in a huge castor-wheeled case. So all I have to do is roll it out to the movers I hired.

I think about her. I don’t want to think about her. Young women have been a weakness of mine ever since I turned thirty. I get it. Classic recapturing of my youth and all that bullshit.

But that’s not it. I don’t feel old and thirty-five isn’t old, anyway. It’s not me, it’s them.

Especially sweet ones like Aria. Innocent ones. Is she a virgin?

God, that would be like winning the lottery.

But it doesn’t even matter if she’s not. She’s new, and shiny, and malleable.

I bet her blow jobs are terrible. I bet she thinks fucking is missionary position. I bet she’s never even watched porn.

I want to corrupt her.

That’s my sick reason for liking them young.

I want to corrupt them.

I want to take all that sweetness inside them and soil it. Turn them dirty. Turn them from shy and inexperienced into cock-sucking experts by the end of the night.

I’m doing all their future boyfriends a service.

OK. I get it. Ryker North is an asshole. A giant, selfish dick who wants nothing to do with feelings, or negotiations, or plans for the future.

But she’s seventeen, not twenty-five.

Which might be a good thing. Because her plans have nothing to do with marriage, or ticking clocks, or houses in the suburbs. That’s why my cut-off is twenty-five. Any older than that and the word ‘relationship’ pops up after the third date.

Hell, her plans right now are probably all about final exams, and backpacking through Europe over the summer, and starting college in the fall.

So maybe that’s a good thing?

Do I hear myself right now? I’m trying to justify wanting to fuck an eighteen-year-old girl because she has teenage expectations instead of twenty-something aspirations on her mind?

So I’m an asshole.

I decide to just own that shit before I go down to the garage, get in my car, drive over to the co-op, and park in the back lot.

I own that shit before I walk inside looking for her. Before I walk the two blocks over to her house and stare up at her window while I hide in the shadows across the street.