Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
The company her father and I started when we turned eighteen is not for the faint of heart. We both arrived at the Madison house at fourteen, having both been through the foster system for enough years that we were obnoxious, hell-bent on pushing away anyone and everyone, and one misdemeanor away from juvie.
But Burt Madison wasn’t the typical foster father. He was quiet, but fair. He put hammers in our hands and taught us how to build things. How to take out all that pent-up anger in a way that no one else had. We gave him a hard run for his money, but he never wavered. He just kept teaching us and showing us we were worth something until we started to believe it ourselves.
That led to starting our own handyman business when we were both seventeen and barely able to graduate high school. From there, we got our builder’s licenses, got jobs working for a big cement contractor, learned that business, and grew into what I have today.
But it’s cut-throat, and you don’t grow in those trades by being a cinnamon roll. I’ve burned down my share of competitors’ buildings and made house calls with a direct message about just how far I will go to win a bid or chase down the competition.
But using my size and physical prowess to nearly decapitate a classmate of Winona’s a month ago may have been going a little too far. She doesn’t know what happened, and he’s not talking. As a result, he’s still alive, albeit attending another school two states away.
All she knows is that the asshole who thought it would be funny to tape a sign on her back that said ‘Caution: Wide Load’ is no longer around.
When I picked her up from school that day, it took me two seconds to know she’d been crying. I didn’t press her for too much, just enough to give me the basics, then I did some digging on my own and found not only the asshole that made the sign, but also the recording of her when she finally figured out why her classmates were laughing at her walking down the hall.
He’s lucky I only dislocated his jaw and both shoulders.
“I’m dyiiiiiiiiing.” Winona slumps her shoulders, then dramatically swoons over the cream and white granite kitchen island, instantly reminding me of all the times I’ve imagined feasting on her tight cunt right there.
“Well, come on. I can’t have you dying on me.” A flush of heat rushes from my heart down into my dick.
God, she’s stunning. All soft curves and flesh I want to taste inch by glorious inch.
She beams, then skips ahead as I nod toward the family dining room I designed when I built this house. One of my many rules is that we eat dinner together. Only exceptions are if someone is sick or one of us is out of town, which has been rare for me the last few years.
I amended my rule about a year after I set it, to give her mother, Catrina, a free pass. Eating dinner with her every night became a nightmare. Both because by dinner, she’s half in the bag most of the time, and because the way she talks to Winona makes me rethink my never-hit-a-woman-in-anger rule.
Family dinner is something I didn’t have until my last foster home with the Madisons, and it taught me that sharing that time together over a meal without any other distractions was precious.
More precious now, with the girl that’s become my constant obsession with her crooked cut black hair and ass and tits that make me think of a thousand creative ways to fuck her plump, soft body parts.
She’s a Goddess straight from a masterpiece. I’ve never been a man who obsessed over pussy. Or women in general. I’m not a saint, that’s for fucking sure, but watching Winona grow up, my minuscule interest in any sort of romantic relationship or sexual outlet pretty much dried up like the Sahara.
She became the center of my world, the one I always put first, long before I had any thoughts of bending her over the counter and bare-backing her full of the cum that weighs down my balls no matter how many times I beat off for relief.
“Fucking Thursdays.” Catrina saunters into the room in that see-through outfit she saw some actress wearing to the Oscars, and I want to cover her up with a damn blanket. “I hate Golden Pagoda.”
She sneers and drops into the seat across from where Winona sits at my right hand.
“I ordered you fried rice, Mom.”
Winona steps over to the walnut Adrian Pearsall buffet, over which hangs the bright canvas covered with her hand and foot prints in brilliant bold colors. I let her help decorate the house when I built it, because I suck at anything aesthetic, especially art. So when she said she wanted to create some of the artwork herself, I had a truckload of canvases, paints, and brushes delivered, and turned one of the spare rooms into an art studio.