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Okay, I need to take a break from all this. I need to unwind or else I’ll go crazy.
I place my laptop on the coffee table in front of me, and I’m about to close its lid when my eyes meet the picture on the screen, the last one I was, ahem, analyzing. It’s from a photo shoot Parker did two years ago for a magazine, a complimentary piece to one long interview he gave. In it, he’s loosening his tie and offering the camera his million dollar smile, and I’d bet my company that this photo alone made thousands of women as wet as I am right now across the whole city.
Oh, screw it, I think to myself as I lie down on my couch, my eyes focused on Parker’s picture. Biting down on my lower lip, I place one hand over my stomach and then slide it down between my thighs, pressing the tip of my fingers against my pussy. I choke down a moan, and then decide to go all the way; I slide my hand underneath my pajama bottoms, feeling the wet fabric of my thong, and then press down on my clit.
Pleasure soaks my nerve endings all at once, and my eyes start rolling in their orbits as I imagine Parker right in front of me, that deliciously wicked smile dancing on his lips. Oh, I’d give a lot of money for him to be really here now. I’d just reach for his crotch and grab his cock, feeling it harden against my eager fingers… Oh, I bet the tabloids are right about his size.
Oh, God, I can’t stop myself now. I slide my fingers underneath my thong and, parting my inner lips, I slide my middle finger inside my pussy. I curl it upward like a hook, driving it all the way in and only stopping when I find that red hot button of pleasure, my G-spot. I press hard against it while, at the same time, I use my thumb to stroke my clit.
I close my eyes as my brain starts to overheat, all of its processing power used to render a mental picture of Parker’s body. I imagine the rugged muscles he hides under his tailored suits, and how it’d feel to run my tongue over the grooves between his abs… And, you know, with my tongue on his abs, it’d only be a matter of time before I went further down and found out exactly what he has dangling between his legs.
How big is he? Now that’s a question I’d pay serious money to see answered. Judging by what the tabloids spout, he must have a baseball bat between his legs. Which sounds like the most delicious thing I've heard all day. I can already imagine his enormous shaft sliding in and out of me, ravaging my pussy mercilessly…
“Oh, sweet God…” I moan, my quivering voice echoing throughout my empty apartment as I start moving my hand faster. I slide one more finger inside my pussy and start flicking my wrist fast, my fingers moving in and out of me at a furious pace. I pretend they’re his cock, stretching me wide and ruining me for all other men, and that just drives me completely insane.
I arch my back, moaning loud enough for my neighbors to hear, and take my free hand to my breasts, squeezing them eagerly. Images of Parker’s naked body flash behind my shut eyelids, and a burning need to feel his body on mine flares up violently, like a sword cutting my brain in half—rationality to one side, irrationality to the other.
“Oh, fuck,” I groan, my inner walls tightening around my fingers as my muscles start burning up. I hiss through my gritted teeth as a sudden spasm takes over my body, forcing every single muscle in me to twitch erratically, and that’s when a sudden moment of clarity overtakes me.
I must have him.
I will have him.
This has been a fantasy for too long.
Besides, it’s not like my mother forbade me from doing it, right? And it’s not like she’ll ever find out if it does happen.
Dear stepfather, here I come.
8
Parker
We've been driving for 15 minutes. I sit back in the black leather seat of my car as my driver navigates us to Amy's apartment.
A-my … those two syllables officially drive me wild. They raise my pulse. They make my heart kick. I even heard someone at the grocery store the other day say something that sounded like "Amy," and when I swung my head around, wondering if it was 'The Amy,' all I found was a toddler on the verge of a tantrum, pulling on his mother and saying, "weigh me," because he felt that he should get to swing from the produce scale instead of the bag of bananas.
I must be slowly losing my fucking mind.
A is a letter that seems to get my attention wherever I am now. And that day in the store, I swear to God, every fucking item starting with the letter A jumped out and reverberated in my brain—almonds, apple cider vinegar, avocados, angel hair pasta.
"Here we are sir," my driver says, pausing my thoughts.
I look out the car window at her building. It's nice. Nicer than I imagined, if I'm being honest.
"I'll be right back," I tell my driver. "Keep the car running. This'll only take a minute."
I walk briskly into the building and to the elevators, pressing the numbers to her floor.
As the elevator climbs, my thoughts return. I remember her back at the bar—the bet—the way she kept her legs slightly open, suggesting something more. Like she was on the verge of revealing a secret and I was going to be the lucky recipient of.
I remember the way I wanted to slide my hands between those butter-soft legs, or squeeze her tits, or slap her firm ass. The way I wanted to press my mouth to hers as she wrestled that cherry stem.
Ding!
The elevator doors slide open and I'm here. This is her floor. I shake those thoughts from my mind.
I walk over and knock on her door. And I smell her before I hear or see her—like a bouquet of roses, or a walk in a seaside garden.
