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“Why is that good?”
Think, think. It’s the opposite of the martial arts ethos. I need to engage the reasonable part of my brain to stop myself from going too far. I need to put my son first. There’s so much I need to do, so much I’m neglecting.
“Because I want you for myself, Samantha,” I snarl, “but you knew that already.”
I wanted you the first moment I saw you, I almost add, but I don’t want to scare her away or for her to yell atmeto get away again.
“I need to see you again,” I go on.
“I don’t know. My mom doesn’t approve.”
“Your mom knows about us?”
“Is that a problem?” she responds sharply. “Or did you want to keep us a secret?”
“No, it’s just… James.”
“What about James?” she says, her voice just as sharp. I think of her facing threats to our children with the same ready attitude. She’s going to be such a fierce mother.
“If he knew something was happening between us—”
“So you plan to get me into bed secretly, make sure nobody ever knows, and then slink away? Is that the gist of it?”
“What? No. Where the hell is this coming from?”
“I don’t know what’s happening between us,” she says, “but I don’t want to sneak around. I don’t want you to be ashamed of me.”
“I couldneverbe ashamed of you, Samantha,” I snap. “You’re beautiful. You’re funny. You’re kind.”
“We don’t even know each other,” she says quietly, as though trying to convince herself.
“Then let’s get to know each other,” I reply.
“My mom thinks I should take it slow. She thinks I’m rushing into things. I’ve never even had a boyfriend.”
I swallow. Her comment puts our age gap under a rifle scope of examination. I’ve lived an entire life, had a career, had a child, taken lives, saved lives. She’s still at the start of her journey, but could we start a new journey together?
“Let me take you out,” I say. “A date. No funny business.”
I’m sure I can hear her smiling, but maybe that’s wishful thinking. Her tone gives nothing away. I’m going insane, man. I canhearher smiling, but her tone is the same. How does that make any sense? She’s messing with my gray-haired head.
“There was nothing funny about earlier,” she says.
“You’re right,” I reply. “And about earlier, you don’t have to be—”
“I’m not ashamed,” she says quickly, but I think she’s lying. “It’s just a lot all at once. Nobody has ever, uh, seen that part of me.”
My cock stiffens, and my balls are tingly like my seed is trying to escape. Knowing that nobody else has seen her perfect slit and nobody else ever will make me even hungrier to claim her. Own her. Take her over and over and hurt anybody else who tries. Even my own son?
“When are you free?” I ask.
She pauses, then sighs. “I need some time,” she says. “Mom’s never given me bad advice. She doesn’t give much advice, but when she does, she’s usually right. If she says I should wait, then I think I should.”
“Wait for what?” I say, trying not to sound needy.
Neediness is sickening in a man. Desperation is a surefire way to turn any woman’s interest into disgust, but the truth is, Iamneedy. Hungry. I’m starving for my perfect painter.
“Wait and see,” she replies vaguely. “I’m sorry.”
