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She’s mine, and only mine.
Grace. Her name is Grace. Grace Birmingham. My little Gracie. Eighteen years old. Barely legal. Probably too young for my twenty-eight-year-old ass, but ask me if I give a fuck.
She lives alone in a shitty apartment building on a side of town an angel like her doesn’t belong in. I don’t know how she lucked into the job as a receptionist at the massage parlor, but it’s enough for her to pay her own rent and utility bill—barely.
I trail my thumb over my lip as I sit outside her apartment building, staring up at the open window. I can see her sitting on her couch with her feet curled up underneath her. She’s reading a book, and my eyes are trailing over the exposed skin of her bare legs. She’s wearing a pair of shorts that clings to every curve of her ass and legs. Her tank is too short and bares a bit of her midriff.
Part of me is angry that she’s dressed like that and sitting there with her window blinds open for every pervert who walks by to stare up at her. Another part of me is thankful for the view so I can feast my eyes on her.
I keep my gaze fixed on her as I consider the interesting information my man pulled up on Grace Birmingham—or rather, the lack thereof.
I have the best resources money can buy, yet he couldn’t find any record of Grace’s parentage. She’s listed as an orphan. She reportedly showed up at the orphanage when she was barely two years old, and she’s been there ever since. No papers. No nothing. It’s like her parents never existed. It’s like she never existed until the orphanage took her in and gave her a new identity.
Who are you, Grace Birmingham?
I watch as she runs a finger through her hair. She finally closes the book, stands, and stretches languorously like a little kitten.
My cock hardens, and I palm myself through my slacks as my eyes trail over her tight, young body.
I could take her right now, but I’ll wait. I know once I make my move, I’ll have to lock her away. There’s a reason a man in my position can’t have a woman. Women make us weak. Women become a pawn to be used against us, and I can’t make Gracie a target.
No, I’ll bide my time. Let her live her life in oblivion a while longer, but once everything is ready, she’ll be mine.
Grace
I paste a smile on my face and internally count to ten instead of doing what I really want to do, which is take this pen and stab Sherry's smug face in the eyeballs. I swear the other woman who works reception here at the massage parlor is such a bitch. I don't know what she has against me, but I remind myself that I won't be doing this forever. Somehow, I'm going to save up enough money to get out of here. Maybe I just need to get out of the city, period.
I close my eyes and picture a little green lawn with no neighbors in sight. Well, maybe one or two houses. I just don’t want to be caged in on all sides like I am here in my apartment in the city where I have to smell all the varied cuisine everyone in the building cooks at all hours of the day and night.
I don't need anything big or fancy. Just a small little cottage will do. It doesn't even have to have a white picket fence. I'm not that picky. I just want my own little place. Maybe I can learn to grow my own food and be sustainable on my own. Yeah, that would be super zen.
For the moment, though, I'm grateful for this job because at least I make enough to have my own place without having to have a roommate. I don't make much more than that. I'm pretty much scraping by paycheck to paycheck, so I don't know how I think I'm going to save up enough for my little dream cottage out in the country, but first things first. Survival.
Everything else will come eventually. I can't give up. Hope is what has gotten me through my entire life.
You would think all of my hope would be crushed by now growing up parentless in an orphanage, but I've always held on to a bit of hope. Oh, it's not hope in the goodness of humanity. I've seen firsthand how shitty humans can be. Now I'm holding out hope in myself that I can overcome my challenges. So far, I have, and I'm damn proud of myself for it.
I don't let anyone get too close because that only leads to disappointment. But I don't think I'm as jaded or bitter as many of the kids who grow up without parents. I still see the good in the world. I think.
I'm getting ready to close. I'm the last person left at the shop, and it's my job to close up two nights a week. I get up to go lock the door before I return to the desk to shut down the computer and close out everything.
When I turn around from locking the door, I gasp and jump back when a man is towering over me. My eyes trail up, up, up until they meet the most startling blue I've ever seen in my entire life. The crystal-clear blueness of his eyes only stands out in stark contrast to his jet-black hair. It's full on the top and waves back from his face stylishly.
The man is huge and obviously muscular. It's all the light button-up shirt underneath his suit coat can do to contain the hard pecs of his chest. His thighs are like cannons, and oh my god, I try not to look, but my eyes can't help skimming over the clearly well-endowed thing he’s packing between his legs.
His mildly tanned olive skin tone speaks to a Mediterranean ethnicity, and when he opens his mouth and speaks, I immediately pinpoint him as Italian.
His accent isn't overly pronounced. His English is quite good. It's more the words that he uses.
“Hello, tesoro.” I don't know what tesoro means, but I recognize it as an Italian word.
His voice is deep and smooth as velvet. It slides over me sensuously. I stare up at him like a deer caught in the headlights before I finally shake my head and get my wits back about me. What the hell is wrong with me? This man just appeared out of nowhere, and I'm alone with him in a darkened office. Why aren't warning bells going off in my head? Instead, I'm standing here ogling him and in awe of how hot he is.
“How did you get in here?” I ask him. “Who are you?”
He chooses not to answer the first question. Instead, he only addresses the latter. “Massimo Russo.”
“We're closed,” I tell him with a shaky voice as I take a cautious step back closer to the desk.
