Inheriting the Virgin

by Joanna Blake

  Dahlia is hardly breathing, surviving on the lungful of air we share, and manages a whimper that sounds like words. I want to stifle out the sound, to keep this kiss going, but she repeats the words.

  “Sorry, what?” I ask, pulling from her mouth to let her speak.

  “I said, I haven’t been with a man…like this. I just wanted you to know.”

  There’s no stopping the ringing in my ear that sounds like I’m in the middle of a room during a five-alarm blaze. Lifting up off her torso, I study her face. “Did you just say you’re a—”

  “A virgin,” she answers, finishing my sentence. “Yes. I’m…that.”

  A slew of questions starts to surface, along with two urges fighting each other in every single cell in my body. The one hardwired to my dick wants to end her virgin status right this second. Right here in my bed.

  1. Dahlia

  “Be good, you hear? Or there won’t be any special treats for my darlings. Give me a kiss, babies. Give Mommy a kiss. I love you all.”

  Is Vivian ever going to leave?

  I nod repeatedly with a polite smile lifting my lips. This is my attempt to keep a look of professionalism on my face as my part-time boss, Vivian Chandler, lowers to the floor to dole out embraces and kisses to her little ones in the hallway outside her penthouse condo front door. Well, not all so little. She still babbles on and on to me with instructions about her fur babies before she flies off for a three-week trip to Europe. Preston, one of the more senior condo concierge staff, waits patiently with her mountain of designer suitcases stacked on a shiny gold-plated rolling luggage rack at the elevator on the opposite wall.

  After some more cuddling, the pampered pooches go back to what they were doing. Vivian rests her Salvatore Ferragamo designer handbag on the threshold and starts to put on her plush, all-cream fur coat. That’s progress.

  “All the emergency numbers are in the email I sent you, and in the top drawer beside the fridge,” she reminds me again. “And upstairs in the dogs’ room.”

  “I’ve got them right here in my cell,” I tell her, pulling my phone from the pocket of my sweatpants. “And the dog monitoring app is installed from the last few times I was here. Even while I’m on campus, I’ll know what they’re up to, and I’ll be close enough to make it over here fast if they need anything.”

  “Great, and don’t hesitate to put them up in their playroom if you’re at school for more than a couple of hours. It’s one of the few doors Daisy still can’t open on her own. Just remember to fill the food and water dispensers, and they’re all set to stay in there for a while.”

  “Sure. I’ll do that.”

  “But make sure you take them out after they eat and drink. We want to minimize any accidents…especially on my Persians on the landing.”

  “Got it.”

  Vivian stares longingly past me at her three pets. Sheba, a tan-colored Shih Tzu, is at the far end of the expansive condo living area, bouncing off the floor every so often as he paws at the all-glass sliding door to the balcony. Bailey, a white Bull Terrier, is waiting in the middle of the marble foyer, sitting dutifully beside Daisy, the black-and-white spotted Great Dane that stands at almost my full five-foot-six in height. Like I said, not so little.

  “I’ll take great care of them, Ms. Chandler,” I say for the hundredth time. “I promise.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t mind sleeping here while I’m gone?” she asks with concern as she picks up her purse again, eyes fixed on her pets while distractedly sliding the leather straps over her shoulder.

  “Not at all,” I say, beaming. And my expression is authentic, too, because who wouldn’t want to stay in a multi-million-dollar penthouse condo instead of a tiny, cramped Brooklyn walkup apartment for a few weeks. “In fact, it’s a big help. This building is fifteen minutes from Columbia, so you’re saving me a fifty-minute train ride each way from Brooklyn. Trust me, I intend to be here whenever I’m not in lectures. All the time. Day and night. Don’t worry, Ms. Chandler. They’ll be fine.”

  “I’m going to miss you, my babies,” she whimpers out, a little choked up. “So much! But I’ll be back in a few weeks with all your favorite imported treats, my darlings.”

  Daisy, Bailey, and Sheba more or less ignore her. They’re used to me being around. I’ve been pet-sitting off and on for Vivian for more than a year and a half. That’s almost as long as it’s been since I moved from Cedar City, Utah, to New York to complete a degree in Veterinary Sciences at Columbia U. These dogs are practically my family. I’m also the only person Vivian trusts to take care of them. Which is why I got this gig.

  Mind you, this is the first time that I’ll be with them on an extended overnight basis. The last time Vivian had to go out of town, she left them at the doggy spa. They were fine, but Vivian was not happy about Bailey losing a couple of pounds while she was away. She almost sued them for negligence, but changed her mind when I reminded her that Bailey has a history of picky eating, which was echoed by her vet.

  Gosh, I hope she doesn’t sue me after this pet-sitting gig.

  Vivian’s sure paying me enough. This will be the most money I’ve ever earned in one job. Five thousand dollars. I still can’t believe that round-the-clock pet-sitting pays this much. Vivian spent more than double that amount to keep them at the doggy spa last time. It’s expensive, owning three pets here in Manhattan. Daily boarding rates per dog can run in the hundreds. For me, the five grand will go a long, long way. My tuition is taken care of, thanks to scholarships and such, and my folks back home send me what they can, but I cover my own rent and other expenses. Even in Brooklyn, living expenses aren’t cheap.

  In any case, I love these doggies just as much as Vivian does, so I plan to make sure they’re happy while I’m taking care of them.

  The chime of the antique grandfather clock in the study draws our attention.

  “Two o’clock,” Vivian choruses. “I’d better be going. See you soon, my babies. Mommy’s going to miss you. And please do whatever Dahlia asks you to do, okay?”

  “Have a safe trip, Ms. Chandler,” I tell her.

  “Thanks, Dahlia. Oh, before I forget. We have a new neighbor. Jackson Knight. Remember his name.”

  “Jackson Knight. Got it.”

  “He’s a handsome young man. But you know how the billionaires living in this building are?”

  I nod, but Vivian, a trust fund billionaire, is also one of them. I don’t know for certain what she means.

  “He’s all business. Cold as ice. Curt and impolite. Hates dogs. Sheba has already wandered onto his balcony. He didn’t like that very much, so make sure you keep an eye on him. Sheba, I mean, not the neighbor,” she says lightly with eyebrows raised.

  “Will do,” I tell her with a nod. “Bye, Ms. Chandler. You’d better hurry, or you’ll miss your flight!”

  “Yes, I really should go. Take good care of them.”

  “I will,” I assure her. “Everything will be great.”

  Vivian sighs, turning to walk over to the elevator and the waiting concierge.

  I remain in the doorway, waiting with the door ajar until the elevator doors open. With one final wave at her dogs, she allows the concierge to roll the luggage rack inside, steps on next to him, and they leave.

  Finally. Deluxe everything awaits me, and all I have to do for three splendid weeks is take care of three munchkins I love to pieces. The five thousand big ones are just sweet, sweet icing on the cake.

  It’s only as I lock the door and turn around that I notice Bailey is the only one looming in the foyer. Daisy has managed to open the balcony door, and both she and Sheba are romping around on the granite tile slabs out there. It’s a sight to see. Daisy’s as large as a pony, while Sheba can almost fit in both my hands. Hurrying across the foyer and living room, I make it onto the terrace just in time to see Sheba’s hindquarters squeeze through a tiny space under the privacy partition—to the neighbor’s balcony.

  “Sheba, come back here, boy,”
I call to him, squinting with one eye through the narrow opening between the exterior wall and the frosted glass partition. Sheba doesn’t make a sound, so I walk over to the thick limestone railing at the ledge of the terrace, and peer around the opaque glass to look for him. “Sheba?”

  Sheba begins to bark excitedly. Then I hear the tap of men’s dress shoes hitting the granite floor. Trailing my eyes to the sound, I freeze. That’s when I see the not so happy yet smoking hot man in his mid-twenties, dressed in a well-tailored navy suit with white shirt, hovering his smartphone an inch from his ear.

  Jackson Knight, is my guess.

  And he’s staring at me.

  No. More like glaring.

  2. Jackson

  Fuck.

  This puny little mutt again.

  It’s two in the afternoon, and I just got home after a close to twenty-three-hour negotiation meeting from hell. I’m exhausted as fuck. My phone won’t stop buzzing. I don’t need a whiny little nuisance yapping his fur-covered trap off—and licking my shoes on top of that. These babies are House of Testoni, for fuck’s sake.

  I open my mouth, about to shout some choice fucking words over at my neighbor, Vivian, to put a leash on her runaway canine when I lock eyes with a girl I’ve never seen before.

  Straight, jet black hair framing her heart-shaped face, big blue-gray eyes almost hidden by her grown out bangs, pale, creamy skin, slightly flushed from embarrassment and not a single blemish, and those full, pink lips I can’t even try to ignore. There’s not enough of her body to view, but her long neck, narrow collarbone, and slight swell at the top of her sweater-covered tits give away her small frame. For a split second, I wish she wasn’t mostly hidden by the glass partition between Vivian’s and my units—the only two condo units on the penthouse.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says in the most hillbilly accent I’ve heard in ages, making ‘I’m so sorry’ sound like ‘Om sa sarry’. Except she uttered those words with her sexy as fuck pink lips, which already have an effect on my cock. “I’m not sure how Sheba fit under the partition. Can you pass him over to me?”

  ‘Nat sha’ instead of ‘not sure’.

  ‘Ha’, not ‘how’.

  ‘Portishan’, not ‘partition’.

  ‘Con ya poss him ava ta me?’

  Fuck, I hate her accent, but my dick fucking loves it.

  She reaches one dainty little hand out with her palm up. Does she actually think I’ll touch that little Sheba monster? More importantly, does she even realize we’re over forty stories up? The wind can pick up the pint-sized pooch, and his fall wouldn’t go well at all.

  “No,” I tell her sharply.

  My patience was wearing thin twenty-two hours ago. Right now, it’s nonexistent. She jumps slightly, her face blushing to a deeper shade of red at the sound of my voice, or it could be my tone. Fuck, maybe she’s just skittish. Either way, I don’t give a rat’s ass. This dog needs to be gone from my terrace, and this pretty distraction of a girl needs to back away slowly. Hopefully, I’ll never have to see her again. Or the little mutt.

  Except they’re my new fucking neighbors. At least I think she is. I’ve never seen her before. Maybe she’s Vivian’s little sister or some relative from the sticks, not that they look anything alike. They damn well don’t act alike. Vivian would have her paws all over me by now, whereas this little country girl looks genuinely afraid of me.

  She’s exactly how I like the women I fuck.

  Timid.

  A little afraid.

  Brimming over with ingrained submissive tendencies.

  Minus the backwoods accent.

  “It’s not safe for her, doll,” I explain bluntly with a fresh dose of buyer’s remorse. I picked this place because I like my fucking privacy. “Come around to my front door. You can take your furball yourself.”

  “Him, and it’s hair,” she says. “Sheba’s a male dog. And his coat is hair, not fur.”

  Jesus fuck. She’s got time to give me a fucking lesson on these four-legged troublemakers? And why the hell am I hard as granite right now? “Just come to my door for him, the little hairball.”

  “Oh, okay thank you, sir,” she chirps, calling me ‘sir’ as though I’m some fucking old geriatric, like my dad. “I’ll be right over.”

  Country girl that my dick loves—that’s what I’m calling her for now—quickly disappears on Vivian’s side of the terrace. The realtor who sold me on this place is lucky I bought this place for cash. It’s private, he said. Perfect seclusion in the Upper West Side, he said. The lying, overselling, slick as fuck douchebag. I’d kick his ass and move the fuck out if I were leasing.

  Returning inside to answer the door, I’m followed by the yapping mongrel scampering underfoot. I make a point of taking careful steps to avoid it. Because House of Testoni, dammit. I’m not wrecking these twenty thousand dollar shoes for this mutt. Not that I’d miss the money, but these are custom made and imported. And comfortable as fuck. I’d have to wait at least a week to replace these fuckers.

  It starts to bark more loudly the closer I get to the front door.

  “Shut your fucking piehole,” I bark back at it, but it ignores me and increases the volume.

  He’s grating on my last nerve by the time I unlock the front door. Then I receive another shocker when I yank the door open.

  Well, two.

  First, country girl that my dick loves is frumpy as fuck, but more gorgeous than I ever thought possible. She’s wearing a thick, light gray oversized sweater over much thicker sweatpants that can fit three more girls her size in there, if she undoes the drawstring hanging past the hem of the sweater and almost to her knees. Except for her long bangs, her thick, wavy, raven locks fall past her shoulders and come to rest close to her waist. As for the bright pink doggy-head bedroom slippers on her feet, well, I’m at a fucking loss. What concerns me the most is that I can tell from the way her clothes fall that she’s a tiny thing with dainty curves under there.

  And it’s sexy as fuck.

  My dick is having a field day in my pants, and I’m grateful I wore snug briefs today instead of loose boxers, otherwise I’d have to cover a tented midsection by now.

  The second surprise, which I realize must be the reason the dog was yelping its head off, is that Gerald Buchannan is standing next to her at my door. The same Gerald Buchannan who kept me up all night negotiating this acquisition deal. He’s the neediest, most high-touch, pain-in-the-ass investor associate of Knights Capital Management Group, the hedge fund company that I run with my older brother, Jace, and our best friends, Caleb, Dylan, and Foster. We only took him on as an associate as a favor to my old man, and because he’s fucking loaded. And by loaded, I mean a fuck ton richer than my father, whose net worth is in the billions.

  It’s a shocker seeing him here at my door because he’s not supposed to know where I live. No one except my father, brother and closest friends has this address. Hell, none of my staff know I live here.

  “Gerald, I wasn’t expecting you,” I say, trying to keep my cool.

  “We need to talk,” he blurts out. “Get rid of her, will you?” He pushes past me, staring down at the dog as he passes it by. “This is important.”

  Anger starts to rise up from my chest, and I clench my fists. This girl means nothing to me, but the combination of my exhaustion, Gerald’s unexpected intrusion, and his outright rudeness to her drives me close to the edge.

  No one talks to my neighbor like that. No one but me.

  Dragging an agitated hand through my hair, I look down into her eyes. “Sorry about that, but he’s right.” I step aside and motion toward her furry friend. Hairy. Whatever. “Keep the puppy on Vivian’s side of the terrace, will you?”

  “Sheba’s a full-grown dog,” she nervously informs me. Her fearful eyes locks with mine as she lowers to her knees to scoop up the pooch. Fuck, looking down at her at this new angle drives me close to insanity. Those lips are so fucking close to my cock, I can almost feel her taking m
e into her mouth. “And I will…keep him away from you…I mean away from your place. I’m sorry.”

  “Who are you, anyway?” I ask. The suspense is killing me. I have to know. “Vivian’s cousin or something?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m Dahlia,” she says, and extends her right arm for a handshake.

  “Hi Dahlia.”

  “I’m the dogs’ babysitter. Pet sitter, I mean,” she stammers. “Vivian’s going to be away for a few weeks, so I’m here…for the dogs.”

  I want to shake her hand, but if I do, it’ll be game over. If I touch her, I’ll have to have her, and the fact that she’s going to be around for a while means I need to keep my distance. Plus she doesn’t look like she’s done with puberty yet.

  “Aren’t you going to screw up your attendance at high school?” I ask the leading question to get a sense of her age.

  “No I won’t. I don’t go to high school. I’m at Columbia U.”

  Am I making her nervous? Neither of us says another word as she turns and leaves. At least she’s of age.

  Maybe.

  “Come in here, Jackson.”

  Fuck. Gerald is here. Closing the front door, I follow his voice to my living room.

  “What’s this about?” I ask. “Have you changed your position since—” I stop speaking to check the time on my phone. “Since thirty minutes ago?”

  He takes a seat on my living room sofa and kicking up his feet on my coffee table like he fucking owns the place.

  “Of course not,” he grunts.

  “Why are you here, Gerald? And who told you where I live?”

  His eyebrows furrow together. “Your father. Why? Is this place secret or something? Or does it have to do with the sexy underage waif running wild around here?”