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)
“You’re going to Vegas, or you want to go?” I grunt, hating how Winona sits there, tugging her lips back and forth, not touching her favorite dinner because of her mother’s comments.
“Just buy the ticket,” Catrina snaps. “I have someone I want to meet.”
“Okay, well, if Mr. Right is such a catch, why doesn’t he buy your ticket?” I throw out the jab just to annoy her as I’m already reaching for her phone, then quickly tapping in my card number for the reservation that’s ready and waiting on the screen.
I pay for her trip gladly. Right now, I’d get Catrina a ticket to the International Space Station if it got her conniving ass out of here for a few days. A ticket to Vegas will do just that, giving me a free weekend with Winona, and that’s worth every penny, but I also know what she is like. Winona turned eighteen a few months ago, and she’s received her first distribution from her trust, to which I am the executor, and that means she now has her own money.
And it wouldn’t be beyond Catrina to ask her daughter to pay for her booty call to Vegas.
I jab the phone back at Catrina, then nod to Winona, lowering my voice. “Eat, baby, before it gets cold.”
I wink and cock an eyebrow at her like we have a secret, and when she smiles back, the way the crystals on the chandelier above the table cast little rainbows on her cheeks turns me inside fucking out.
Winona works her fork into her lo mein, then takes a bite, wrapping her lips around the sterling-silver utensil with a happy little moan that goes straight to my cock.
“Baby?” Catrina hisses. “You treat her like she’s still six years old. She should be out on her own anyway, not commuting to college and living at home with—”
I wave her off. “Just get your bags and go. You sober to drive?”
Catrina glares but nods, then points her phone at Winona, who is gleefully chewing her second bite of noodles. “You be good. I’ll be back Monday.” She rests her eyes on her daughter, and I sense a shred of real concern. “You okay here with the grouch?”
Winona shrugs, but her cheeks brighten another shade. Her tits look fucking epic in that tight, plain white t-shirt she’s wearing, and my cock lengthens down the leg of my jeans, dripping precum onto the inside of my thigh as I think of being alone for the whole weekend with her.
“Well, don’t think you have to stay here the whole time I’m away. I’m sure you have college friends you could hang with, or whatever the kids say these days.”
Catrina grabs a pinch of fried rice between her thumb and fingers, dropping it into her mouth as she heads for the door, barely mumbling a quick “ciao” before she disappears into the hall.
My control is already unraveling, but I swear Winona’s fucking nipples must have a direct line to my inner thoughts, because as my mouth waters with thoughts of how sweet they must taste, they visibly harden under the thin cotton of her shirt.
Taking a deep breath, I only exhale when I hear the door close, and catch a flash of red as Catrina’s red Audi R8 picks up speed down the drive.
Then my attention refocuses on my pseudo-daughter, who is looking at me like the cat that ate the canary.
“What?” I snap my tongue against my teeth as she shrugs, wiggling her ass in the chair, and I wonder if I was too hard on her mother.
It has to be hard on Winona to see and hear us banter back and forth like that, but I’m not giving in to her bullshit. Respect is a big thing with me, and one thing I’ve learned is that you have to respect yourself if you want respect from others. It would be far worse for her to see me accept Catrina’s bullshit than to show her I’m the man standing between her and anything hurtful or harmful this world can try to throw her way.
We finish our dinner in pleasant chatter. Mostly her chatting, me asking questions, wanting to know about everything.
Our meals together have become another source of joy and torture for me, even when Catrina isn’t with us. I vacillate between keeping my composure, giving her feedback on things that I think she needs guidance on, or telling her how proud I am of something she’s done or said. That, and fighting off the burning, incessant urge to stick my tongue in her hot little hole before stuffing her full of ten inches of Coke-can thick cock.
But something has shifted. There’s a kindling of something more out of control than usual roiling around in my belly. An answer to a question I’ve dared not ask myself for too long.