"Can I really ask you anything, Trask?" she says, a smile forming on her lips.
Wait … that smile. Now I know why she looks so familiar. She looks so much like her mother.
"Amy?" I ask.
"I was wondering when you'd recognize me," she laughs.
"You look—"
She cuts me off. "Older?"
"You look good," I say.
"I'm not the frizzy-haired, braces-wearing 18-year-old kid you remember, right?" she continues, laughing.
If I'm honest, she's the opposite of that description in every possible way. Fuck, the woman sitting next to me is stunning. A halo of blonde hair frames her face. She's wearing a form-fitting, but classy black dress that shows off her every curve. She has an ass to die for; I'll tell you that much. I can picture myself squeezing it, a full cheek in each fist.
What?
Don’t look at me like that. Sure, she’s my stepdaughter. But that fucking dress. It’s wrapped to her body like wet tissue paper.
Its almost impossible to not be able to tell what she looks like fucking naked.
No, she's definitely not a kid anymore. I can't help but gaze at her perfect, round tits, and the way that they seem to be popping out of her dress—almost fighting with the fabric—and she catches me in the act of staring.
"I'm up here," she smiles.
I quickly look up, and act as if I don't know what she's talking about.
"Jesus," I say. "I just can't believe how grown up you are."
It's as if the surrounding people—the noise, the commotion, the bar, and everything has melted away and the only thing I can see and hear is Amy.
She smiles and seems to recognize the magnetic hold she has on me right now. She now has a drink in her left hand, and as she brings it to her lips, I quickly scan her finger for a ring, trying not to be too obvious about it. I don't see one.
"No husband?" I ask.
"I haven't found anyone worth marrying," she grins.
"That's a shame," I say.
"And why's that?" she asks, one eyebrow arching. "Maybe I don't want to be married."
"With your," and I hesitate, trying to find just the right word, "assets … you'd make any man happy, and lucky."
She doesn't reply, and instead simply smiles, and goes back to her drink. I notice her legs are angled toward me now, and she seems to have scooted in a little closer. I take it as a sign to try and dish out the charm.
"Want to make a bet with me?" I ask.
"Depends," she smiles, hesitating ever so slightly. And I swear she opens her legs a little.
Am I just imagining that?
It takes everything in me to not reach over and rest my hand on that butter-smooth crevice between her legs.
I hand her the cherry from my drink. "You know what they say about a woman who can tie a cherry stem into a knot without using her hands, right?"
She shakes her head no, so I continue. "Well, it means," and I lean into her ear and whisper it for emphasis, "that she's a phenomenal kisser."