Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 45217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 45217 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 226(@200wpm)___ 181(@250wpm)___ 151(@300wpm)
Once he’s gone, I study the paper. An address. A bar. The time is tomorrow at seven p.m. I grit my teeth and force myself to breathe slowly and calmly. This is bad.
I want to throw the paper down the drain and pretend I never saw the kid, but that isn’t an option. It’s happening again, dammit.
After returning to the annex and steering clear of the main part of the house, like Tommy asked, I collect my notebooks and head to the library. I try to lose myself in the monotonous task of transferring the hard copy to the Word document, noticing pitfalls in the story.
Prison gave me lots of time to write and read. Some inmates get crap from others for spending so much time in books, but they never bothered me much. After a few fights, after showing you’re not going to take it, people generally know better than to keep trying their luck.
It’s difficult to focus, my thoughts returning to the restaurant and then, after, the kid and the message. Who is it? A contact or the devil himself?
After working for two hours, I return to the annex, stopping on the way home to buy the cheapest pasta and several tins of tuna. I’ve got a little money from before I was locked up, and Kylie sent me some, but I won’t properly spend until I’m making my own money. How? When?
It makes me feel like so much less of a man not having my own cash. All these thoughts of Lucy are completely pointless when I’m broke. I can’t start a family or date her if I don’t have money. Oh, and there’s the problem that I savagely hacked her father to death. Maybe that’s more important.
As I replace my notebooks, I mentally return to her house to the moment I was inching past her. All I had to do was lean forward, push my lips against hers, taste her, guide my hands to those curvy hips, and hold on tightly so she never had to guess who she belonged to.
Suddenly, I’m on the bed, panting, struggling to maintain control. I’m breathing heavily, beast-like, as I imagine tearing off her pants and turning her around, revealing her large, creamy ass.
“I may have killed your dad,” I imagine saying as I stroke my hand up her inner thigh with one hand and massage her voluptuous ass with the other, “but you still belong to me. You’re still mine.”
In the fantasy, she whimpers, shivering against me as I reach her naked pussy. I start palming her sweet slit, sliding my finger deep inside her and pumping it back and forth. She looks over her shoulder with her vivacious, flushed cheeks, her eyes wide as she nods at me to keep going. She’s biting her lip in the fantasy, her receptive hole making gushing wet noises of pleasure as I finger her faster.
The fantasy shifts, and suddenly she’s on her back, wearing her waitress uniform, her skirt hiked up around her hips. Her hands caress her breasts over her shirt as I grind inside her.
My hand is on my dick. Not in the fantasy. In real life. I’m sliding precome from my tip to my base and back again, pumping fast, groaning as I imagine it’s her tight hole instead.
The daughter of the man I went to prison for killing, on her back, rubbing those big juicy tits—tits made for feeding our children. I’m gasping, totally lost in the fantasy. I can feel her tight hole wrapped around me, coaxing seed out of me, her lips trembling and her eyes shocked as I drive even deeper. I own her young pussy. I pound her hard until her slit starts pulsing around my dick, telling me she’s close, telling me she’s—
“Argh,” I grunt as hot seed rushes up my shaft and explodes all over my tensed abs.
I let my head fall back with a sigh. What a waste. Every drop belongs in her body, where it can give us a future together. Then one day, our children can learn that Daddy went to prison for killing the grandfather they never met.
I promise I won’t do that again as I clean myself up. I’ll stay strong and tame that part of myself, deal with finding work and meeting the mystery person who left the note, but I can’t make that promise. That would mean accepting that, one day, she’ll find somebody else.
Or maybe she already has a boyfriend. Perhaps she’s in a relationship now with the luckiest man alive, somebody who can’t know how blessed he is. Fuck, I’m panting. My fists are clenched. She can’t be with anybody else. Ever. She belongs to me—every inch of her body, every smile, every breath, every intimate moment. She. Is. Mine.
Back in the bedroom, I have to laugh. It’s a dark laugh filled with disbelief. I’m getting hard again, as if my body knows I wasted the seed. My body demands that I find her, claim her fertile young body for real, and live happily ever after—another laugh. Yeah, right, like that’s how this ends.