PrologueFaithIt was another pretty in pink birthday. My sixteenth. Me in my backyard as the sun shone down on my teenage blonde curls. Happy birthday being sung loudly along with the glow of birthday candles.
My heart beating fast as my eager eyes sought out my hero in the crowd.
Not my dad, or the array of uncles alongside him. They were great. Of course they were. My dad was every bit the epic hero a girl like me should look up to.
No. This was different. This hero was different.
The man I was searching out was the handsome suited hero who’d been at every birthday party I could remember. The man with the hard jaw and the icy grey eyes to complement the salt and pepper at his temples. He was the man with the cold hard stare. The man who gave me a tingly little shiver between my legs every time he called my name.
Mr Miles Lindon. Managing Director of Lindon Associates and Enterprise.
My daddy’s boss.
I scanned the onlookers for any sight of him, my smile holding firm as my heart picked up its beat another notch. My mum held the pretty cake high as the song sounded loud, and I was there, caught tight in the moment, all ready to blow out those candles and watch him staring right back at me.
But he wasn’t there.
Mr Lindon wasn’t there in the crowd. He’d slipped away without a whisper.
“Make a wish, sweetie,” Mum said, but I didn’t feel sweet. Not in that moment. Not with the tingle of want for Mr Lindon so alive inside me. I didn’t feel sweet at all as a wish for Mr Lindon to claim my innocence tumbled through my mind.
No, that kind of wish wasn’t acceptable. Not for a good girl like me in my pretty pink dress. I pushed the thoughts away, wishing instead for great results at my approaching exams and a win at the upcoming county hockey game. I pushed my dirty fantasies down and thanked everyone for their amazing presents and amazing good wishes, my eyes still scanning the garden for the man who’d been keeping me awake at night with filthy dreams.
And then I did it. I sucked in a breath and delivered.
The applause was loud as I blew out the candles. My school friends gave their whoops and cheers, and my dad smiled on over, and my mum placed the cake onto the side table and started slicing up the portions, but I was already moving. Slinking towards the back. Curiosity pulling me along.
I was on autopilot as I made my way through the bodies, smoothing down my cute satin skirt and giggling along with giggles. The party music sounded loud and the thrum of laughter was lively, but the curiosity still called me, louder and louder.
It was like I knew. Like I knew Mr Lindon really was down there somewhere, I guess on some level I must have done. I must have felt the curiosity like a mischief, tickling hard down deep.
Everyone was busy chatting and laughing and joking as I slipped away and out of sight. Our garden was long. Our pond was a quaint little pool with a waterfall and a bridge crossing. My mum’s bushes and orchids and natural sweep of flower beds curled away to the left, to the summerhouse and the pear trees.
And Mr Lindon.
To his thrusts and grunts. To his filth and wants and growls.
To the slim little blonde girl who looked barely a year older than me.
She was in pale blue, her cute little breasts hardly any bigger than mine as they bounced. She clutched tightly onto one of the pear trees as she accepted him, eyes screwed shut and lip pinned hard between her teeth. She took everything he had to give her, and it looked painful. Painful but beautiful.
His fingers were tight around her neck, his mouth to her ear, grunting. Grunting so cold and hard that my pussy burned.
His words were filth.
His slams were fierce.
I felt the dirty little shudder down deep.
I felt the wetness, and my legs tensed. Oh, how they tensed.
Oh, how I wanted to be that dirty blonde girl in blue.
But this wasn’t the Mr Lindon I’d known for years through school. It wasn’t the Mr Lindon I’d grinned at and bloomed over and read stories to. The Mr Lindon I’d been fighting my own feelings over.
It wasn’t the man who’d given me a kitten at seven years old and congratulated me on a great childhood princess win.
It wasn’t the man who’d pulled me onto his lap and told me what a good girl I was.
This was the man I’d dreamed of during long nights and known I shouldn’t.
This was the man I’d slipped my fingers down between my clammy thighs and felt dirty about over and over.