Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 43829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 219(@200wpm)___ 175(@250wpm)___ 146(@300wpm)
A silent peace seemed to fall over me as Papa slipped his hand under my skirt as we walked to the living room, sliding his fingers into the slit I’d cut in my tights, hoping for a moment just like this.
“Easy access and wet. My wet, beautiful dirty girl.”
“Yes, for you, Papa.”
“Good girl.” Those words make me feel suddenly shy as he heads toward the back door. “I’ll be back. I need to burn off some tension.”
His manner is soft but more distant than last night, and there’s the nagging thought that what we did was a mistake.
After all, he lived here for years before Lucy and I showed up and he’s never made mention of having any women in his life.
I’m sure he’s lonely and maybe, oh God, maybe it was all just a weak moment. Too many years alone for a man without… comfort.
“Fuck,” I hiss, running my fingers through my hair, gripping the back of my head as I clench my inner muscles, begging for the explosive relief he gave me last night.
I drop into the massive leather chair next to the window tugging the red velvet pillow against my chest, watching him throw the ax over his head, then down, split wood flying around his feet over and over.
Before long, he’s stripped out of his shirt, the winter sun shimmering on his salt and pepper chest hair, the sweat glimmering on his rich olive skin.
I’m mesmerized. I vaguely hear Mama singing in Italian to her scratchy Pavarotti record as I drift into the fantasy of feeling that hard length he rubbed against me last night pushing into my body. Taking him inside of me and bringing us together in a way that can’t be undone.
A half-hour later, I’m squirming and wiggling in the chair after making a hasty trip to the restroom to try to rub out the ache that’s turned manic as I watched him chop log after log.
After.
Log.
But, it didn’t work.
Seems my grandpa is the only one that can soothe my savage beast, and I’m going to do whatever I can to make sure he doesn’t have some second thoughts about what’s going on between us.
Sure, yes, he’s my papa. People will gasp.
People I don’t care about.
My sister, on the other hand, I do care about. But the pull in my belly is stronger than my sense of logic, so when Gennero comes through the back door, sweat-covered and looking more frustrated than when he went outside, I stir the pot.
“You look tense.” I do my best high step wiggle walk across the room as he tugs his handkerchief from the back pocket of his black jeans and runs it down his face and over his chest.
“Does that surprise you?”
I shake my head, taking a quick look over my shoulder where Mama disappeared to her quarters down the hall a few minutes ago, then close the space between us, nipping my lower lip and gathering my lusty courage.
“Well…” I shrug, the earlier crackling from the fireplace now a low sizzling of the embers. “I was thinking about you while you were gone.”
He raises his eyebrows, hair damp from the drifting light snow and the heat of his exertion. “I can’t stop thinking about you every fucking second.” His brow cinches as I press my fingers to his lips, the scruff of his beard against my palm.
“I tried to take care of things, but I couldn’t get…” I press my index and middle finger between his lips, glancing them over his tongue. “…there. Can you help me, Papa? I’m all tingly and achy down here.”
I run my other hand over my hip to the juncture of my thighs and feel his teeth dig into my fingers.
“Ow,” I purr as he reaches out and takes a full-on handful of my pussy under my skirt, his thick, rough fingers slipping into the access I cut into the fabric, pushing at my opening and making me stutter on an inhale as he runs his tongue between my fingers, now forgotten in his mouth.
“I own all this now. I’ll be staking my claim soon. My flag of ownership will be rooted inside you before long. But, now—”
“There you are.” Mama’s voice slices through the moment as I jump back, spinning to see her holding onto the red and white fabric of Grandpa’s Santa suit. “There’s a tear along the inseam.”
She looks up, considering us for a moment with some confusion before shaking her head and holding it out toward me.
“What?” I say, my face as red as the suit as I turn to see Papa tracing the fingers that were just inside me over his lips.
“You’re the seamstress. I’m the cook. Lucy is…” She shakes her head again. “Never mind, you’re the seamstress and it seems your grandfather has put on some weight this year. You’ll need to get him in his suit, make sure you don’t need to let out the darts at the waist, then fix this inseam. But pin it while he’s wearing it, that’s the only way to get the fit right.”