Clancy’s eyes fill with amusement and he actually leans forward to slap my bottom, which jiggles enticingly.
“You’re not faster than me,” he announces. “I just let you run faster than me because I knew you needed water bad.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, already turning to dart off. “Well, keep talking because you’re going to be the last one back home!”
Then, we both take off at light speed, striving to outdo one another. Of course, Clancy’s much faster than me and his long strides outpace mine within seconds. But what’s more important is that we’re happy and lighthearted, and that the cold silence has been broken. After all, there’s a lot to talk about now that we’ve become involved, and the hardest part is still coming.
6
Clancy
* * *
Selena jogs ahead of me the whole way to the penthouse, and I let her win because she’s right: I want to watch that ass jiggle as she moves. It does bounce as she runs, and all I can think about is grabbing it, spanking it, and then taking a big, delicious bite.
No, I reprimand myself. Stop that. I can’t think about Selena in this way. There’s nothing between the two of us that can be good, nothing that can be sustained, and worst comes to worst, I might even be subject to criminal charges. Is that possible? I have no idea, but I don’t want to find out either.
But God, last night sure was good. It hadn’t felt wrong at the time. In fact, I’ve never come so hard and maybe part of it was because of the taboo aspect. I’m fucking my stepdaughter for crying out loud, and Selena wants it too.
Unfortunately, waking up was a different story. Seeing her lying in my bed, with those lush pink curves exposed, the slit between her legs still swollen and puffy from my use … Goddamn, Rochelle must be rolling in her grave, if she’s watching us. I hope, for my deceased spouse’s sake, that she’s not.
When we get back to the penthouse, Selena is panting hard and droplets of sweat dot her brow. We ran a good distance, and because it’s a bit later in the morning than either of us usually go out to exercise, it’s pretty hot. I grab her a bottle of Gatorade from the refrigerator and toss it to her. She fumbles with it for a second, but then does a bit of juggling and manages to snatch the slick bottle out of the air with a giggle. I can’t help but find it endearing.
I crack open a sports drink of my own and take a long, satisfying gulp. Maybe I’m thirsty, or maybe I’m just avoiding the conversation we’re about to have about last night and how terribly amoral it was. I don’t want to hear that Selena regrets it, because as much as I know we shouldn’t have done it, I don't think that I regret it at all. Yeah, that’s how much of a sick fuck I am.
But things have changed, I have to admit to myself. Selena’s standing here in my kitchen, all grown up, and as I peek at her from the corner of my eye, she looks luscious, even sweaty and panting. I never really knew her as a kid, but it’s still sort of strange to see her as an adult, beautiful and independent rather than the short, awkward ten year old from long ago. That little girl had braces, pigtails, and a fierce interest in dinosaurs. But now, Selena’s gorgeous. Her hair is tied back from her face, but a few curls spring out at her temples, providing a halo effect. Frankly, she looks hot and good enough to eat.
I shake my head to clear it, forcing my attention to the television. The weather is on, but I don’t really listen. All I want to do is talk to Selena, to ask her how she’s feeling after the run, or if she wants my chef to make us lunch later, or if she wants to join me in the shower I’m about to take. That would be nice. I can see it now: those slick curves doused in bubbles, my hands trailing everywhere as her head tips back with a throaty moan …
FUCK! She’s my deceased wife’s daughter, I remind myself. Rochelle was a beautiful, smart, kind woman who made me a widower while leaving behind a mourning, confused child that I hadn’t known what to do with. I can’t think about Selena this way, for more reasons than one, and my temperature goes up about a million degrees until I’m positively radioactive. Fuck fuck fuck! Why do my thoughts keep circling around the same thing? I can’t control them, and I feel like a fucking teenage girl with this endless obsession.
But my stepdaughter evidently has better control than me.