Besides, it’s not like my mother forbade me from doing it, right? And it’s not like she’ll ever find out if it does happen.
Dear stepfather, here I come.
Parker
We've been driving for 15 minutes. I sit back in the black leather seat of my car as my driver navigates us to Amy's apartment.
A-my … those two syllables officially drive me wild. They raise my pulse. They make my heart kick. I even heard someone at the grocery store the other day say something that sounded like "Amy," and when I swung my head around, wondering if it was 'The Amy,' all I found was a toddler on the verge of a tantrum, pulling on his mother and saying, "weigh me," because he felt that he should get to swing from the produce scale instead of the bag of bananas.
I must be slowly losing my fucking mind.
A is a letter that seems to get my attention wherever I am now. And that day in the store, I swear to God, every fucking item starting with the letter A jumped out and reverberated in my brain—almonds, apple cider vinegar, avocados, angel hair pasta.
"Here we are sir," my driver says, pausing my thoughts.
I look out the car window at her building. It's nice. Nicer than I imagined, if I'm being honest.
"I'll be right back," I tell my driver. "Keep the car running. This'll only take a minute."
I walk briskly into the building and to the elevators, pressing the numbers to her floor.
As the elevator climbs, my thoughts return. I remember her back at the bar—the bet—the way she kept her legs slightly open, suggesting something more. Like she was on the verge of revealing a secret and I was going to be the lucky recipient of.
I remember the way I wanted to slide my hands between those butter-soft legs, or squeeze her tits, or slap her firm ass. The way I wanted to press my mouth to hers as she wrestled that cherry stem.
Ding!
The elevator doors slide open and I'm here. This is her floor. I shake those thoughts from my mind.
I walk over and knock on her door. And I smell her before I hear or see her—like a bouquet of roses, or a walk in a seaside garden.
Then I hear the lock jostle free, and she opens the door.
She stands in the frame and my eyes travel the length of her body. She has to be the most beautiful woman I've ever fucking seen.
"You look," I manage to say, "stunning."
"You don't look half bad yourself," she grins.
"Shall we?" I ask, extending her my arm. She nods, and grabs it and together we head down to my car. It almost feels like a silly, old-fashioned gesture, but in the moment I'm compelled to do it.
As we slide into the car, Amy sits close to me. She reaches over and rests her hand on my thigh. I play it cool and make small talk, even though my cock is obviously thrilled. I feel it leap in my pants.
"So, the Boat House?" I ask. "Have you been there before?"
"The view can't be beat," she replies. "A view of the lake—the history of it all—I love it."
"It's a good choice."
We make small talk, and before I know it, my driver is dropping us off and we're being led to a table with, as Amy mentioned, a clear view of the lake.
I immediately order us a bottle of wine, and as we sit, and sip from our glasses, I say, "So, tell me more about your business."
"What do you want to know?" she grins. "There's cameras and there's sex." She's testing me. Teasing me? "I don't need to explain to you what I used to
do in front of a webcam, do I?"
"Maybe," I smile. The truth is, I want to hear every fucking detail.