Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Vivian is dumbfounded and I use this opportunity to escape her awful company, running up the stairs to lock myself in my room.
Sitting on my bed, breathing hard, I can still feel the effect of Trent’s enormous, hard cock pushing into my virginal pussy. It’s sore, and I have to shift my weight a bit to get comfortable. But even though I’m bruised and hurting down there, I can’t bring myself to regret any of it. I can't bring myself to hate him. Actually, I can’t even bring myself to believe my mom’s accusations. After all, why should I just take Vivian’s word? If it’s true, I want to hear it from his own mouth. I want to give Trent the chance to tell his side of the story. After all, there are many angles to a situation like this … and I want to hear the words from the man himself.
13
Trent
I wait for a good hour before I start heading back home. Because shit. This is a clusterfuck for sure. What the hell was Vivian doing in the nature reserve? I’ve never seen her wear anything but high heels, mini-skirts and tight yoga outfits. She must have followed us here and waited in the forest for an opportune moment. I could kick myself for not taking Janie’s earlier sighting seriously. She said she saw something fluorescent orange flashing in the forest, and it had to be her mom stalking us.
Fuck this shit. I have absolutely no desire to run into that screeching madwoman again, even if her accusations are technically true. I look down at the moss where only just a little while ago, I took Janie’s virginity. It already seems like ages ago now. Her little backpack lays on the ground, where she forgot it. I pick it up, intending to bring it back with me, although I have no idea how I’m gonna get it back to her. Should I drop it by her front door? Apologize? She’ll never accept it. And why should she? I’d kept secrets from her, and it was her right to hate me.
Because the way Janie’s face had dropped when she heard her mother scream those words breaks my heart. It’s not like I was never going to fess up. I was just waiting for the right time. I guess before we actually had sex would have been better, but the urge was so fucking strong. I needed the woman desperately, and words just got in the way.
So it’s my fault. There’s no doubt I’ve lost Janie now, and it’s all because I was too cowardly to tell the truth. Fuck my life.
It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault. This one phrase echoes through my mind the whole drive home, the rain only mirroring how miserable I feel. It starts as a drizzle, but by the time I finally pull into my driveway, it’s like a monsoon. It’s a real Iowa summer shower as thunder bangs over my head. Seems appropriate. My past has finally caught up with me, and the future’s now crashing down around my ears.
As I get out of my car, I don’t even bother to hurry into my house or protect myself in any way from the downpour. Immediately, I’m drenched to the core, my t-shirt sticking to my ribs, black hair dripping over my brow. The only thing I care about protecting is Janie’s tiny backpack, which I hold curled into the crook of my elbow as I fish my keys out of my pocket with my other hand. But as I enter the house, wet footsteps sound behind me and I turn around. My heart drops because it’s Janie, her long curly hair pasted to her skin, clothes sticking to her gorgeous, curvy body. The body that, for a brief moment, was mine.
Janie looks as miserable as I feel. I hold out her little backpack to her.
“You forgot something,” is my rough growl. She takes the bag from my hand without looking at it, not caring if it gets wet. “Go home to your mother, Janie, you’re drenched,” I rasp, but she doesn’t move. The brunette’s staring at me intently, her big beautiful eyes full of hurt, blinking the rain out of her vision.
“Is it true?” she asks in a small voice, barely audible over the din of the downpour. At this point, there’s nothing left to hide, so I nod. Her plump lips pinch together in disappointment. “How much of it?” she asks. “Fifty percent? Twenty-five? A hundred?”
I sigh heavily, raindrops trickling down my massive chest.
“All of it,” I say honestly. “Except one part. I didn’t rape her. She consented. But she lied about her age, and told me she was eighteen while she was actually seventeen and ten months. She asked me to come back to her parents’ place, and she wanted me to – no, begged me to do her on the dining room table.”