Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26437 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 132(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 88(@300wpm)
I’ve since forgotten the woman’s name and face, but every little detail about the girl in white is etched into my brain from the pale pink manicure to the fake diamonds dangling from her perfect little lobes.
I quickly realized the only thing the socialite wanted to talk about was my dick. I was bored out of my mind in that cloakroom wondering how I was going to shut this woman down. My body had no reaction to her when she was trying to throw herself at me when the girl walked in. One look at her cherry-pink mouth forming a licentious circle, one sniff of her cinnamon spice drink, one glare of her pine tree-green eyes, and I was a goner. My cock that wanted nothing to do with the woman throwing herself at me was suddenly harder than it had ever been in it’s life.
I’ve never had another orgasm as good since that night after I told the socialite it wasn’t happening and I went home and jacked off to thoughts of Willow. Now all I want now is Willow Kaplan. That’s the fucked up part. The sick part is that she’s not a woman. She’s a girl.
Or was. I peer down at the Christmas list. She’s now a woman. She is ripe for the picking. I sent her father a check because I didn’t trust myself to have any communication with Willow herself.
She’s temptation incarnated. If I allow myself to think of her, I get hard. If I sent a gift directly to her, I would find myself at her doorstep, dragging her out of her home and carrying her to my penthouse at the Plaza.
Which is why she’s the only person on my Christmas list who I haven’t purchased a gift for. There’s about a million things I’d like to buy for her and all of them are inappropriate, from the plaid school girl uniform skirts to the ballet flats tied with ribbons to the wispy baby doll nightgowns.
I can’t buy those things for a newly-turned twenty one year-old. I can’t force my kink on her—not now and not ever.
I’ve told myself that a million times, but my dick doesn’t get the message. All he knows is that she’s the hottest thing I’ve laid eyes on in my thirty-eight years and no one is going to be able to satisfy my desires but her. It gets worse around the holidays, the anniversary of first seeing her.
She looked like a Christmas angel and smelled like a spicy dessert. Is it any wonder that I can’t walk by a Christmas tree without my dick standing at attention? Yet the only gratification I get is from my own hand when I’m fantasizing about all the filthy things I’d like to do to her perfect, lithe body.
I shove back from the desk and massage my aching cock. I should be damned to hell for wanting a teenager. I should be tied to a post and whipped for wanting to bend her over my knee and spank that flawless ass of hers until it’s bright cherry red. I should be hauled into Central Park and stoned for wanting to pound my cock between her lush thighs while she screams for her Daddy to take her.
The orgasm throbs at the base of my spine. I just need to get through the next week. I tear open my pants and palm my cock. It takes only a few rough jerks before I’m spilling into my hand. Feeling semi-disgusted with myself, I get to my feet and go to the private washroom attached to my office to clean up.
One of these days, I’ll cure myself of my obsession, but it’s not going to be this day.
“You want me to mentor your daughter?” I ask incredulously. It’s dark at the Beekman Bar, with its paneled walls and dim lighting, so it’s not easy reading the man sitting on the stool next to me.
“I’m at my wit’s end,” Mason Kaplan confesses, before taking a sip from his tumbler. “She’s been kicked out of NYU. She’s burned through five jobs in the last two months. Three of my clients are on the verge of firing me. She put the son of the last client in the hospital. I don’t know what to do with her.”
I clench my hand around my own glass at the mention of her being endangered by some reckless punk. “Stop trying to get her to act like bait for your business deals,” I tell him bluntly. “It’s wrong and nasty. She should be left alone.”
“She’s not bait,” he protests. “But these men always open their wallets a little wider if there’s a pretty woman at the table. That’s actual scientific fact.”
“You can hire a hooker for that.” I’m going to have to move my money. The way Kaplan is doing business these days is fucked up. If it wasn’t for my need to see Willow taken care of, I would’ve pulled the plug long ago. There must be other ways to help her out—ways that don’t require me to be in close proximity to her. I reach inside my jacket for my checkbook. “I’m happy to float her a loan. How much does she need?”