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What the fuck, Pike? Good for what exactly? Except regrets? Except this itch in his palm and his dick begging for relief? He shouldn’t unbutton his fly and reach under his waistband. Can’t touch himself while thinking of her. Not Sheila Mistry’s girl. There be dragons...
But he loved chasing dragons once upon a time, didn’t he? Go figure, the first time he shot up heroin was the same night he met Sheila. In hindsight, that should’ve been a massive warning sign. Nothing good came from either thing. Well, nothing except the pretty girl upstairs. But Michael can’t claim any involvement in that particular miracle. And he’s eternally grateful for that. He’s only just met her, but his feelings about Lily aren’t one bit paternal.
”I don’t want to hurt her.“
”Then don’t.”
He doesn’t want to hurt her. He doesn’t want to want her. One of those ships has already sailed. And both are going to be dashed on the rocks.
Four
Michael’s the perfectpicture of a rocker in repose as they lounge on the porch with morning coffee. He didn’t bother with a chair, sitting on the floor with one leg out in front of him. His talented and tormenting fingers dance along the fretboard as he tunes an acoustic guitar. His hair’s not that long anymore, but a few silver-flecked waves fall over his forehead as he bends and strums and turns the knobs, listening for whatever it is that’s just right.
The whole picture is breathtaking. She could watch him for hours, and maybe that’s why he speaks. Breaking the spell.
“I don’t know what Sheila told you, but there was never a chance. Not even a possibility.” For him to have fathered her, Mick means. “We were over two years before she got married. And I wrapped it up every time. We were losing people left and right back then. I might’ve drank too much and snorted too much, but that’s one thing I never budged on.”
Lily’s always known who her father is. A solid, dependable, dear man who likes golf and constantly monitors his stock portfolio. But Sheila’s version of her past cast a toxic shadow over all their lives. As if what might have been could erase what was and what is. So it’s a weird mx of dissonance and relief to have Mick confirm the reality.
And her feelings about him, for him, have never ever been filial. She should probably make that clear. She’s not looking for a dad or a Daddy. “It was more like she had this idea that her life would’ve been better with you,” she explains. “She met my father. Had the big dream wedding. They had me. And then she got buyer’s remorse. Nothing we did could compare to partying with The Great Mick Lange.”
He laughs, wry amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “NothingIdo can compare to The Great Mick Lange.”
Au contraire.“I think there’s plenty you could do. I have a whole list of ideas.” A list she’s had for a very long time. She might as well share it. Isn’t that what she’s here for?
“Lily.” Mick growls her name, the register going straight to her core. The warning in his eyes, too. It’s too much smolder, not enoughno. And he’s aroused. Knuckles white as he grips his guitar, trying to position it over the rise in his jeans.
“What?” She’d feign innocence, except she left that behind in the backseat of a finance major’s Audi when she was nineteen. “I’m not some starry-eyed kid you’re taking advantage of. You just did the math yourself.”
He sets the Gibson aside, all pretense of tuning and playing gone. And that’s when she knows she’s going to get her way no matter what he says. “Just ‘cause I did the math doesn’t mean we need to move on to sex ed.”
“But I have so much to teach you.” It’s a joke and it isn’t. He’s frozen in place, even though he’s perfectly capable of getting up and going inside. His throat moves as he swallows his next argument. And he just watches her come to him. She crawls. Out of efficiency more than servitude. It’s easier to place her palms on his thighs. To put her face right there against the evidence of his want for her. To kiss the taut denim.
“Sweetheart, what did I say?” He grabs her ponytail, makes to tug her away. But then he’s gripping it tighter, winding the length of it around his fist for purchase. Because she’s got his zipper down and his cock out and she’s tasting musky skin and rubbing her cheek along his bristly pubic hair. He’s wider than he is long. Thick as she strokes him and licks his circumcised crown. He smells like need and precum.
“Lily...stop.” It’s a weak protest. For show. Because his head drops back against the balusters, and his legs fall open to give her more room between them. The furthest thing fromstop. And his hand cradling her head, twisting in her hair, tells hergo on.Go on, take it all.
