A range of emotions punches me. Mostly, I’m pissed. Free of makeup, she looks too fucking young for anything. She damn sure doesn’t look fucking eighteen.
Parnell McCall rubs his forehead, watching in silence as his wayward daughter disappears. I might not know her name or her real age, but I know she’s his. They have the same black hair—or he had her black hair before gray seeped into it. At this moment, her eyes remind me of lilacs at twilight. They’re unique to her with neither her mother nor her father sharing the amazing color.
She’s fucking gorgeous. But then so’s her mother, the woman I just fucked within an inch of her life. She’s brilliant in bed. Reserved, though, and guarded, when she isn’t opening her cunt. I don’t give a damn. I like pussy. Dad passed this to me because he had to fly out of town on business. Parnell hadn’t wanted me with his wife. I’m twenty-five. Dick can go for hours.
Apparently, if he brings her treats, he gets his treats. Pretty fucked up and more than a little devious. All the asshole’s doing is covering the fact that my dad’s younger sister is a freak and Parnell’s mistress, who suggested Parnell bring other people into the bedroom to ease her into being accepted by Cassandra. Then, they won’t have to sneak around. Abby can fuck Parnell right in front of Cassandra and the woman won’t suspect anything.
My father specializes in fucked-up relationships. The total love he had for my mother is tainted. His father had two sets of children. I guess that’s a fucking family trait.
Parnell clears his throat. “Monday, Georgie will be in school.”
“Georgie?”
He nods toward the staircase. “My daughter.”
He might’ve said her name before. I can’t remember. I was just too struck by her. But, finally, I have her name.
She asked a logical and intelligent question. She wanted to know why was I in her house. She treated me like a regular Joe Schmoe whom she knew had no business being here.
I appreciate that, although I refuse to acknowledge her beauty any more than I have. And no fucking way will I even deliberate on her tiny dress, obscene in its lack of material. The black sequins and lace clung to her, more sexual than the two pieces she wore last night. My fucking T-shirt would cover more on her. I can’t believe her parents allow her to run around so scantily dressed. She’s a fucking jail sentence waiting to happen. Brains and dicks rarely agree on what’s right and what’s wrong.
She wears the fuck out of the dress and she’s gorgeous. That part is as wrong as it is right. I don’t only want to eat her pussy again, I want to fuck her and she wants to fuck me.
Wrong. That’s the only comment I’m able to make at the thought.
The most troubling knowledge I have of her focuses my brain. She’s lost and without an anchor. Parnell’s still talking. I have little regard for him. He’s a cheating asshole—not that I have room to talk, but, most of my affairs are out in the open. I fuck. I don’t stay.
My lifestyle keeps me on the road. Legions of girls want me, so pussy’s available to me worldwide. I’ve tried the girlfriend thing a few times and my dick always messes it up. The demons haunting me, the pain I’ve caused and experienced, assure me I’ll die alone.
Usually, a fucked-up scandal follows my breakups and the gossip rags hound the fuck out of me. I just can’t do relationships.
Kids? That’s another story. I want kids. My reason for my agreeability to payouts to keep the coffin shut on my skeletons is I never want a child of mine to know what I’m capable of.
What my father says I did.
The sudden silence snaps me out of my thoughts. Parnell’s watching me expectantly. “Yes or no?”
“Yes or no what?” I bite out, wondering if he even noticed how high his daughter was.
“A foursome. Monday. Me, you, Cass, and Abby.”
“Abby’s my aunt, dumb ass,” I growl.
Parnell tightens his mouth. “I don’t want you to fuck her. Keep Cass busy while I’m fucking her.”
I have some morals. “Pick another chick to fuck while I keep the Mrs. busy.” I shrug and bargain. “She has good pussy so I can fuck her again.”
Brushing off my words with a wave, the older man stuffs his hands in his pockets. “About Georgiana.”
My dick jumps at her name. Anger surges through me. I don’t get boners for little girls. She must be fourteen or fifteen, no matter what she told me. “Yes?”
“The guitar lessons I promised her.”
“You’re fucking serious?” The asshole can’t be. I have a fucking tour to do, practice sessions, press junkets. An album to record.
“Just one or two lessons,” Parnell cajoles. “A little something to let her know I love her.”
I lift a brow. “Try telling her. Better yet—show her.”