Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 55912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55912 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
When I find Jamie’s number, a tight feeling grips me. I almost feel my legs getting weak. It was so hard not to stare at him the few times he and Mom were around the house together or when he came to pick her up in that ominous black car with the tinted windows.
He was always wearing a sharp suit, his dark hair combed back, old-fashioned, with streaks of silver in it. He had an expensive, shiny watch on his wrist, wearing it casually as he leaned against the car as if nothing mattered. I wanted to run out there and touch the top of his chest, where he’d left a couple of buttons undone.
But nope. My hands are shaking. I’m sitting on the bottom step, I realize. I’ve stumbled over here. Dammit, this is stupid. I’m on the verge of tears. Mom’s missing, and here I am, thinking about her ex.
I take a few moments to gather myself, breathing slowly. Returning to the book, I pick it up, typing Jamie’s number into my cell. I don’t press call right away. I’m terrified I will say something I don’t mean to. We never spoke much, literally just hey and hello.
No, it’s time to get it together. Mom could be anywhere, held by anyone. I need to check this clue off the list.
CHAPTER TWO
Jamie
Oh, fuck. I’m a bad, bad man, but I can’t help myself. After a hard workout, my manhood gets hard, as if in response. All the rage and passion surges through me. Now, I stand in the waterfall shower, the hot water slapping against my body, running down my muscles.
I’ve got my dick in my hand, stroking, wishing this was happening for real. I shouldn’t let myself think like this, not about a woman who’s less than half my age—a woman who needs no part in my life. I haven’t even seen her in over two years. She was nineteen the last time I saw her, standing at the doorway of their shitbox home, my curvy woman with those thick legs on display in her PJ shorts.
She had that cute-as-fuck smile on her face. Cautious but tough, like she could handle anything I could give her. In my fantasy, I walk down the path, bring my hands to her breasts, push them together, and feel she’s not wearing a bra. I tear down her top and feast on her perfect, full nipples, grinding my hand up her thigh at the same time.
I’m rubbing her pussy, and she’s already wet for me. I grab her hips and turn her around. I’m getting close, going far quicker than I would in real life. I’d want—need—to make her cream first. My blood is hot. My body is burning. Precome leaks out of my tip like it’s fire.
In the fantasy, she turns, showing me her thick, round, naked ass. She’s got that tough smile on her face. “Fuck me hard. Make me pregnant.”
Then, I’m doing it, the thrusts in my imagination timed with my hand stroking quickly up and down my cock, slick with shower water. I groan as I lean over, wrap my arms around her, and try to hold her at the end. But as my seed wastefully splatters on the shower floor, she disappears.
I open my eyes. I’m a bad, bad man. I promised myself I’d stop masturbating over her, a nineteen-year-old woman. Well, twenty-one now, but not the last time I saw her. I’m thirty-nine. I’ve never been much of a math whizz, but that makes me eighteen years older than her. I could’ve had a child who was older than she is now.
Quickly washing myself, I bury the feeling or try to.
“My life is simple,” I tell Demon, my Great Dane, who sits very dignified on the corner of the living room couch, watching TV. I sit beside him and stroke his head, putting my feet on the footrest and watching the game or trying to. My hair’s still wet from the shower, drawing my mind to what I did. What I still want to do. “I do some good, don’t I? Enough good for a bad man?”
Demon yawns. He doesn’t like it when I talk like this, but I can’t talk to anybody else about it. My circle is small. My social life is nonexistent. I’ve got people I can call if I need them, and they know I’m always here, but I don’t talk much. I do my work quietly.
I tilt my head when I hear it—buzzing from deeper in the apartment. I stand, my senses flaring momentarily, but this place is locked down to all hell. If I ever needed to keep somebody here, it’d take a tank to get in or out. Luckily, that’s never been the case.
My cell phone is on charge, vibrating against the glass end table in my bedroom. Demon must’ve thought something bad was going to happen. He looms at the door, his ears flopping down almost aggressively, his tail perked.