Still, there’s something strange about this scenario. It’s almost as if I know Petunia from somewhere. Maybe a past life? I’m not exactly given to premonitions and astrology, but I feel like I’ve met her before. It’s the way she laughs, and the way she moans when I’m deep inside. Petunia also has a habit of pulling her ass cheeks apart to offer her holes to me, and it gets me so fucking horny every single time.
I sit at my kitchen counter, stumped. The girl is obviously a wildcat in bed, but I’d like to know more about my horny little princess. She said she just moved to town from Chicago, so she’s new to the area. Then again, Petunia also mentioned that she’s an aspiring actress. Maybe I saw one of her plays, and now I’m getting flashbacks? Or maybe I watched a commercial which featured the sweet girl, and that’s why she seems somewhat familiar? I have no idea.
At that moment, the doorbell rings, jolting me from my musings and I stand up to get it. My heart’s racing, which is strange because I don’t usually get worked up when entertaining a woman. But today, it’s different, and I quickly look down to make sure that my t-shirt and jeans are reasonably straight. Then, I walk to the front door and swing it open.
“Hey sweetheart,” I growl. “Thanks for coming. You look beautiful.”
Petunia steps inside, her plush pout turned up in a smile.
“You look good too,” she chimes musically before leaning forward to press a kiss to my cheek. “How are you, Brant?”
Her lips on my skin are electric, and my blue eyes flash as I shut the door.
“Better, now that you’re here. Come in, hon. Can I get you a drink?”
“Just water, thanks. I don’t think I could take more alcohol after the Red Rooster.”
“Naw, we didn’t drink that much. But water it is. Right this way, sweetheart.”
Together, we walk to the kitchen while the curvy girl takes a seat at the bar, and I putter about, retrieving the aforementioned water. As I toss ice cubes into a glass, I pause for a moment because Petunia looks so right sitting at my kitchen island. It’s not just that she’s beautiful, although of course she is. It’s the way she seems to belong here, with her long, golden hair and pink summer dress. Her tanned legs are crossed demurely at the ankles, and she’s got sandals with straps that wrap around her lower calves, highlighting their delicacy.
She looks like wife material, the voice inside my head remarks. That makes me jolt with surprise because where the hell is this coming from? This is literally a girl that I picked up at a bar yesterday, who let me fuck her every which way until Sunday, and in public too. So how could Petunia possibly be wife material? If anything, it’s the opposite. She’s a total slut who should never be introduced to my family.
But you like sluts, the voice in my head speaks again in a wry tone. I mean, you literally hooked up with Monica Green, who’s the definition of a slut gone wild. Snorting silently, I shake my head because it’s true. I’ve always had a taste for bad girls, and Monica and Petunia fit the bill exactly. I’ve always appreciated women who let me suck their tits in public, and who cream hard with my dick stuck deep inside. I like it when they take it nasty, and can’t get enough of my cock.
But still. Wife? I’m not on the market for a wife. If anything, I’ve been dating around for years now, refusing to settle down. I haven’t even had a girlfriend in fucking forever because I’ve been so busy dipping my dick into different cunts. It’s disgusting and I’m basically a male whore, but hell, it’s not illegal, nor is it wrong. It’s just what I enjoy.
At that moment, Petunia shoots me a sweet smile.
“Cat got your tongue?”
I jolt out of my reverie.
“Naw, sweetheart. Just thinking how beautiful you are, that’s all. Here’s your water.”
Petunia nods and lifts the glass to her lips.
“Thank you, Brant. It’s very kind of you.”
Then, she takes a sip and I watch like a man mesmerized as her slim throat moves with each swallow. Her skin is pale and delicate, and I have a powerful urge to ravish her right here and now, leaving marks on that ivory expanse. But what the hell am I thinking? I may be a beast, but I don’t hurt women. At least, I haven’t so far and I’m not going to start now.
“So how old are you?” I ask abruptly, my voice a low growl.
Petunia smiles, putting her glass down.
“Why, how old do you think I am?”
I shake my head.
“Real young. In fact, I think I may be in trouble already. Please tell me you’re over eighteen, honey, or else I’ll have to cut this off,” I say, gesturing to my general pelvic region.