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Before I answer, Roger takes out his cell phone, showing me his lock screen.
“It’s from an art show she did last month with the startup before the jerk made her quit. Look there. That’s her piece right behind her.”
I realize Roger may be showing me this to highlight her talent, and he’s right to.
The painting hanging at her shoulder is a stunning piece, an intricate pattern of shapes that link together to form a purple butterfly, meticulously arranged, but the painting might as well not be there. All I can do is stare at her.
“Isn’t it great?” Roger says.
“Great,” I repeat, my voice shuddering.
My world is suddenly far more complicated than a few minutes ago. There’s this pounding in my chest, heart, soul, manhood, and everything as I drink in the sight of her. How the hell is this Evie?
In the photo, she’s got her light brown hair in a long braid, draped over her shoulder. Her face is full of life, her cheeks flushed, and a spark in her bright green eyes. She’s wearing denim overalls, not a “sexy” outfit, yet I can’t stop devouring her curves, the landscape of her hips, the thickness of her, and her beauty. Call it what it is… perfection.
She’s nineteen—less than half my age and Roger’s daughter. I was there for her birth, for Christ’s sake, but now I know, as I keep staring, that she belongs to me—not her father, mother, or any other man who might see how special she is and attempt to claim her for himself.
No. She’s mine—no goddamn arguments.
“Is something wrong?” Roger asks, tucking his phone away. “Listen, if you think I’m being too forward here, just let me know. I knew it was a long shot when I asked.”
If I allow this woman to tattoo me, to place her hand against me… My balls ache at the thought. My manhood threatens to stiffen, and I have to stare at the flowerbeds, focusing on the dirt so I don’t think about her juicy legs, large breasts, smile, braid, and all of her.
“No,” I say, barely hearing my own voice. “Nothing’s wrong. I think it’s a good idea.”
I’m hardly aware of what I’m saying. I’m just talking to say something, to mask the feelings bursting inside of me.
“I’ll let her know,” Roger says, “and tell her she needs to practice. It’s a big deal tattooing the boss. What if she messes up?”
She won’t, I almost say. My woman is dedicated. My woman won’t let anything stand in her way, just like I won’t let anything come between her and me. I won’t let anything stop me from sinking my hands into her hips, pulling her up against me, driving my stiff manhood against her belly, and letting her feel my engorged tip pushing as though trying to get to her womb… to make babies and a future.
“Then I’ll cover it up,” I tell him. “No harm done.”
Roger stands. “I’ve got to get going. I’ll text you about Evie.”
We say goodbye, and I continue with my work.
Later, when I’m back in my apartment, I try to fight it. I know it’s wrong, but the urge is far too strong. Calling it an urge feels ridiculous since it’s more than that. It’s almost like I don’t have control of myself, or maybe that’s a copout. Whatever the case, in the shower, I close my eyes and wrap my hand around my rock-hard cock, stroking as I think of the photo, as I imagine tearing off her overalls and feasting on her young, curvy body.
CHAPTER
TWO
Evie
I no longer have a crush on Brian Pearson.
I stopped writing affirmations years ago, but after Dad gives me the news, I find I must do it again. Lines and lines of statements claiming that I don’t have a crush on Brian anymore, that he’s nothing to me but Dad’s friend, a family acquaintance.
Spinning in my computer chair, I look around my bedroom at the art on the walls, and then my gaze flits to my bed. If I were to root around under there, I could find my other notebook, the one from my early teenage years, with other affirmations.
Brian Pearson is going to be my husband one day.
Brian belongs to me.
He loves me.
Maybe I could justify that as a kid, but I’m not a little girl anymore. I used to call him Uncle Brian when he swung by on his visits. I didn’t realize how messed up that was when I was younger, but now I see it. Now I can see that crushing on somebody I used to call Uncle—somebody who has known me my entire life—is weird. I can’t use the excuse that I’m some airheaded teenager anymore, not that I ever was an airhead, and technically, I still am a teenager.
I almost jump out of my seat when the knock comes at my door.
