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“That’ll be our daughter, Lexie,” Raymond announces, turning toward the back wall where there is another door. “She’s a good kid. A dreamer. Not always practical. She’s in a bit of a snit today so if she comes off as unpleasant, it’s not about you. We were just discussing her course of study and we don’t agree on her direction, let’s say. Kids are a handful even when they are not legally kids anymore.”
“What does she want to study?” I ask, trying to be polite but not really giving a shit about his entitled daughter’s choice of major.
“She wants to be an,” he opens a set of air quotes, “an apiarist. But, as long as I’m footing the bill, she’s studying political science or business.”
I’m still trying to figure out what an apiarist is. There’s something familiar about the word but I can’t quite place it and right now, I don’t much fucking care.
All I can focus on is Stephanie. How I’m going to find her.
Then, how I’m going to bind her to me so she can never leave again.
But before I can figure out the word, from down the hallway comes the sound of the garage door closing. Then footsteps, the jingle of keys.
And finally, “Oh my god,” says a sweet, feminine voice. A little raspy. A little sexy. Strangely familiar. “I’m so sorry. I had to go to three different stores…”
I turn my head.
“…to find…”
She comes around the corner.
“…organic heavy whipping…”
And that’s when she sees me.
And I see her.
She stops on a dime, staring at me, dressed in black leggings that cling to the curve of her butt just so and a pink sleeveless top that says “Not Interested”. The shopping bag in her hand swings back and forth with a soft crinkling. On her key chain is a big sequined bumble bee.
The familiar word comes to me. Apis. As in apis apis. The common honeybee.
Apis. Apiarist.
Fuck me running.
Her mouth falls open. She blinks once, twice, three times.
“…cream?” she says, her eyes darting from me to her Dad then back, her mouth in a silent O.
But not nearly as fucking confused as me.
“Lexie, meet your kind-of Uncle Marshall.” Patricia does that fucking arm wave between us like she’s one of the women from the Price Is Right. “Marshall, meet your sort-of niece, Lexie.”
Oh shit.
My niece?
But hold up, hold fucking up.
She’s not really my niece, not really. We’re not related by blood. But no wonder, now, that she seemed so familiar. She’s got a lot of her mom in her. All the best, kindest, warmest things that I loved so much in her mom.
And that, honestly, I love so much in her, too.
Looking at her, it all rushes back in exquisite detail. Clear as if it were happening all over again. Her moans, her cries, the way her pussy welcomed me in, the way she tasted me when my cum dripped down between her legs.
Half goddess. Half cumslut. Pure magic.
“My niece, Lexie,” I enunciate each word like I’m speaking a foreign language.
“My uncle, Marshall,” she counters just as slowly in return.
She presses the grocery bag to her chest.
I slide my eyes over her body.
Up. And. Down. Nice. And. Slow.
Remembering every inch. Every lick. Every tight nipple and curve of her ass. The way her cherry juice decorated my cock. Left a little deep pink spot on the sheets which I broke back into that place and stole after I finally got the fucking security off me.
My visual inspection makes her sweet cheeks flush crimson.
“Patricia says you’re going to spend the night, yes?” Raymond asks, refilling my glass. “No worrying about driving. This is my favorite brand.”
You better fucking believe I’m spending the night.
I toss back the rest of my tequila.
“Absolutely, I’m staying,” I say to her. To her and to nobody else.
I have no fucking idea what we talk about at dinner. I’m just so goddamned happy because there she is.
My princess.
My sort-of niece.
My Lexie. And all I can think about is getting inside her where I fucking belong.
The only part of dinner I really notice is dessert. Watching her eat her slice of coconut cream pie makes me want to take her right here, right now, on this dining table.
But somehow, I resist. Mostly.
Aside from undressing her with my eyes, I’m also fucking her with my imagination.
Until Patricia says, “Lexie, will you show your Uncle Marshall to his room?”
“Ummm.” She worries her lip, then licks a dollop of whipped cream off her finger. Exactly the way she licked her fingers for me last night. Christ. “Can’t you?”
Patricia clicks her tongue.
“Come on, young lady. Don’t be rude. Show him his room and then you can get to your homework.” Now she turns to me. “We can either put you in the basement with your own bathroom, or you can go upstairs and share the bathroom with Lexie. Up to you.”
