by Piper Trace
Her nipples puckered so hard from cold air and adrenaline that they pinched. She realized her fingers were cold too. Freezing. Those things, coupled with the unreal feeling she had in her head, brought a thought that seemed as if it came from miles away. Was she going into shock? Would she simply lose consciousness if his lips touched hers?
She took his hands in hers.
“You’re so cold, honey,” he said, but his unblinking, inky eyes reflected only hunger, not concern.
She placed his large hands on her naked breasts, and he didn’t stop her. Her guardian’s warm skin against her tight nipples sent a jolt of pure pleasure through her, and she gasped reflexively. The hair on her arms and the back of her neck stood up, and she wondered again about shock. It occurred to her that this man had now touched her intimately before he’d even kissed her, and something about that felt so dirty. Excitement slickened her upper thighs.
Bishop didn’t move to caress her, but he dropped his eyes to where his hands were touching her and exhaled a breath that sounded as if he’s been holding it for months.
Standing on her tiptoes, she closed the distance between their mouths. She nuzzled her lips to his, pressing his hands hard against her bare chest.
She didn’t want her father’s money. She didn’t want a car. All she wanted was Bishop to see her as a woman, to use her as a sexual being.
She’d never made a man come, and she wanted Bishop to be the first. She’d fantasized about the weight of him on top of her, watching his face as he experienced the ultimate pleasure with her body, knowing she’d given him that.
Impatient now, she molded her naked body to him, exploring his mouth more urgently. “Please,” she whispered against his lips, and, finally, he responded. He groaned, the sound of rusty hinges on an old, forgotten trunk that’s finally been opened after years of neglect.
Much the same way, Bishop opened to her, kissing her back, slowly at first, and then plunging his tongue into her mouth as if claiming her, pinching her sensitive nipples.
“God,” he choked out, just as fireworks sparked behind her eyes and her knees went weak. He moved his hands to grip her upper arms, thankfully holding her up, but he pulled back, practically shaking her in his urgency. “No. This is wrong,” he said, his voice gruff.
“I locked the door, Bishop.”
But his dark eyes were now glassy with panic, and her heart sank. She didn’t think she could pull him back from this.
“We can’t. God, we can’t do this.” His fingers dug into her arms so hard she was sure he would bruise her.
“Please,” she begged, and reached for his him. She flattened her palm against his hard stomach and plunged her hand down behind his waistband, finding his erection without any trouble. From the size of him, there was no avoiding it. She wrapped her hand around his rigid flesh and squeezed.
A sound of wanting came out of her mouth that she’d never made before. It was guttural, an feral noise. She closed her eyes, memorizing how he felt in her hand, a steel bar in velvet. A gift for her to enjoy.
Bishop’s cock was suddenly her whole world. She wanted it everywhere, every day. She wanted him to do things to her with it. Rough, dirty things.
“Penelope, Jesus. Don’t.” He pushed her back, but not far enough that she had to let go of him, she noticed.
“You want this,” she purred. “I want this. Don’t make me stop.”
He looked nearly crazed, and she bit her lip and smiled. She was going to have him, on the day of her eighteenth birthday, just like she’d planned.
He wrenched her hand from his pants with a grimace and picked her up like a doll, like she weighed nothing. He brought her to the sofa, and without care, dropped her onto it. Then, much to her disappointment, instead of climbing on top of her, pushing her back into the cushions and taking her, he went to the brass bar cart by the window and leaned on it, causing the neat rows of crystal glassware to knock together with a sharp, melodic tinkling.
His back expanded as he took four deep breaths before he straightened and grabbed a bottle of whiskey, pouring two drinks. He knocked one back immediately and refilled it, the second much deeper than the first. He seized both glasses and paused, staring out the window.
His back was straight, his posture perfect. She didn’t know what he was seeing in his mind’s eye, but she knew he wasn’t seeing anything out that window. She knew this just like she knew the moment was over. She sat up and retrieved her robe, wrapping it back around her naked body and retying the sash. Tears pricked at her eyes.
Finally, he came to the couch. He handed her the small glass of spirits and slowly lowered himself down next to her.
“I know you’re not old enough to drink that,” he said. “And you know I don’t condone any kind of drinking or drugs on your part, but in this rare case, I think we both need it.”
She knocked back the drink in one gulp, coughing and gasping at the burn, but she didn’t care. “I’ve been on my own most of my life,” she bit out. “Don’t tell me there’s anything I’m not old enough to do.”
He gulped half of his generous pour and set the glass on the coffee table in front of them. Shifting on the sofa to face her, he took her hand.
“Penelope,” he said quietly, and a tear slipped down her cheek. Knowing his visual impairment, she purposely took her hand from his and wiped her cheek before allowing him to take her hand again.
He looked down at her hand in his, now wet with tears, and his lips pulled thin.
“You’re my ward,” he said simply, his voice firm. “It’s immoral. I’m standing in the place of your father.”
“No,” she shot back. “I was your ward, when I was a minor.” She shifted, uncomfortable from where her satin robe stuck to the wetness on the backs of her thighs caused by her earlier excitement. “Yesterday,” she added tartly, knowing it didn’t help her case to point out that just the day before she was a child in the eyes of the law, but she was angry, and she’d always been reckless when she was angry.
He squeezed his eyes shut, then picked up his glass for another swallow of whiskey.
She wiped more tears with her other hand.
“Don’t cry, Penelope.
“I like you. I don’t need anything serious. I just really want you to do things to me. Sexual things. I don’t know what to do with these feelings,” she said, her voice accusatory. “I haven’t felt like this before. It feels like I’m so horny I might go crazy.”
She crossed her arms and glared at him, then bit her lip and looked away. This wasn’t how she’d planned for this to go at all. “Sorry,” she mumbled. “That probably sounds ridiculous to you.”
“No.” He shook his head again and cleared his throat. “But these aren’t true feelings, Pen. You’re eighteen. You’re dealing with powerful hormones right now, and…” He trailed off.
“And what?” Her voice was tremulous. How could he write this off like it was just a teenage crush, when it was obviously much more than that? Surely he felt it too.
She blinked, unsure where that thought had come from. Was it more than that? Did she want more than sex from him?
He continued his clinical explanation of the chaos taking place in her heart.
“It’s deeper than just lust, Pen. Your father never gave you the love and acceptance you needed, not even during the most vulnerable times of your life. Now I’m here in place of your father. You’re transferring your need for that love and attention to me.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She scowled. “I didn’t want to have sex with my father.”
Bishop squeezed his eyes shut at her frank words before trying again. “Talk to your therapist about this.”
She made a sound of disbelief.
“Penelope, this is important. I need you to talk to your therapist about this.”
“Okay,” she said evenly, “but if I’m going to explore my damage, then you are too.”
He narrowed his eyes, clearly wary of where she was going with
this.
“You tell me what your problem is.” She set her jaw, challenging him with her eyes.
“My problem?”
“Why won’t you touch me? I know you want to.” She ignored the scornful look on his face and plowed on. “I know you think I’m too young to know anything, but I saw the look on your face when I blew out my candles today.” She leaned toward him. “You were one notch away from losing it and fucking me on the dining room table.”
His face reddened, and his jaw flexed. “Don’t talk like that, Pen.”
She tilted her head and studied him. She was on the right path.
“What’d you run out of there for?” she asked, her tone coaxing him to confess. “Did you go to your room and jack off? Did you touch yourself? Did you think of me and make yourself come?”
He grabbed his glass and swallowed the rest of the amber liquid, spilling some down his chin and wiping at it viciously with the back of his hand. His fingers were trembling, which alarmed her.
“Bishop,” she said, worried now. “What is going on?”
He stood up suddenly. “I’m not fit to be around you,” he said. He looked around, as if checking for things to clean up or something to seize upon to save him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “I can’t be here with you.” He filled his glass with whiskey for a third time and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bishop
THOUGH IT WAS a night for tossing and turning, Bishop, aided by the alcohol he rarely drank, fell into a deep sleep.
Somewhere in the night, he dreamt of her. She lifted the covers and slid in next to him. She’d come to him naked, and the feel of her against him was cool, soft and stimulating to his heated skin. Her small body felt smooth and lithe, and he groaned as she pressed her bare flesh along his side.
He let her pull off his boxers, freeing his throbbing erection. When he’d fled the library earlier, he’d been too ashamed to masturbate while thinking of her for the second time that day. He denied his want instead, knowing he couldn’t have her. Knowing he shouldn’t even think of her like that.
So, he was more desperate and aching than ever when she untangled his underwear from his feet and slid back up him to kiss his neck. As she nuzzled him, she wrapped her fingers around his shaft and squeezed. Shifting her weight until she was nearly on top of him, she stroked him up and down between their bodies.
“I’m yours,” she whispered. “I’m yours to fuck, Bishop. Take me.”
He cupped one of her breasts and pinched her pebbled nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling it in his grip, stretching the rosy nub, causing her to throw her head back and gasp. She slid up so her breasts were closer to his face, and he seized the opportunity, lowering his head enough to take that assaulted nipple in mouth, gentle now. Apologizing with his lips and his tongue for the rough treatment. Suckling first at one breast, then the other.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh yes, Bishop. This is what I wanted for my birthday.”
He blinked, and things began to feel less dreamlike. Confusion suddenly cut through his whiskey-soaked brain.
Pulling his head back as far as his pillow would allow, he willed his eyes to focus on the shapely, tempting succubus who had stolen into his bed.
“Penelope, what are you doing here?” His voice sounded quiet and somehow isolated in his dim bedroom, a room only he and the housekeeper had ever been in, until now.
“Don’t stop,” his naked ward begged in a whisper, writhing against him. “I need something.” Her voice was small and desperate. “I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t masturbate.”
She continued running her hands up and down his hard length, and he groaned, his hips jerking of their own accord, thrusting his cock into her small grasp.
“I can’t,” he ground out, but she only gripped him tighter.
“Maybe this is a dream, Bishop,” she suggested, so quietly it was almost inaudible, even to his keen hearing. “Tell yourself you’re just dreaming,” she pleaded.
He rolled them both so she was now half under him, and braced himself above her with one arm.
His brain, though still slow with sleep and drink, protested her idea. But the room was dark, the night surreal, and he found himself thinking, maybe it is. Maybe I am dreaming.
The only light was from the moon that spilled across his bed, illuminating Penelope’s naked torso like a beacon to his salvation. He’d never wanted anything so badly.
Tentatively, he touched a breast again, caressing it, his resolve weakening precariously when she arched against his palm and whimpered. He traced a finger around one of her hard tips, and then down, until he gripped her small hip in his hand. Her fingers were still wrapped around him, and he rocked his pelvis forward, thrusting into her grasp again. Positioned as he was, he could almost pretend he was entering her.
Entering his Penelope. Oh god.
Her hand wasn’t as strong as her tight pussy walls would be, so as nice as it felt, Bishop knew actually fucking her would be infinitely better.
In a moment of pure weakness—of absolute lust-driven insanity—he let some of the forbidden thoughts behind that dam in his head spill over. Thinking about them, letting himself explore the dark depths of them while her hand was wrapped around him, nearly made his eyes roll back in his head.
He wanted to sink inside her more than he wanted to breathe. He wanted to take her so badly that living in the same house as her, now that she was finally of age, might kill him. He could think of nothing all day except burying himself in her, and this was just the first day of her eighteenth year. What about the next day, and the next, and the next hundred after that?
How could he survive living in the same house as her and not taking her when the need grew too strong? Pushing her up against a wall of her father’s home and taking her roughly, until he emptied his hot seed into her young pussy. Calling her down to the lab so she could suck him off and swallow his cum as if she was greedy for it. Instructing her to go to his room when her studies were completed for the day, where he would stretch her tight ass so he could use her there too, like the wicked, wicked man he was.
He wasn’t thinking straight. Wasn’t thinking at all. He was licking and caressing his young ward’s tits like they were the last meal of a starving man. She had wrapped a leg around his and was grinding herself against him. Rubbing her wet core against his hard quad muscle wantonly, trying to get herself off.
He moved up from her breasts. If he was going to pretend this wasn’t actually happening—that this was just a dream—he was at least going to get the one thing he wanted most of all.
So, he kissed her. Kissed his sweet, young Penelope. The girl whom he was in charge of. The young woman who had seized his terrified heart, and whom he couldn’t seem to shake loose.
He explored her slowly at first. Her lips were full and soft, and tasted like no eighteen-year-old should—of whiskey and bubblegum—and it was so good. He wanted to eat her up. Consume her, so she’d always be a part of him. Her tongue licked at his bottom lip, and he thought he might explode. He’d never experienced a desire like this.
He kissed her like he was desperate to be a part of her, because he was. He swept his tongue into her mouth and deepened the act, exploring her swollen lips, wondering if this made her feel the way it made him feel, but that was impossible. No one could feel a pull this strong. A woman could never feel like she might die without him. He didn’t deserve a love like that.
“This isn’t right,” he murmured into Penelope’s mouth. “You’re barely eighteen. Your father didn’t put me in charge of your care so I would do this to you. He wouldn’t want me touching you like this.” But his voice was weak. Where there should have been conviction behind his words, instead, there was the tone of a man asking for forgiveness for his weakness as he plowed ahead with his wicked sin.
She released his cock and scooted further beneath him, her large, chocolate eyes wide and trusting as
she spread her legs and positioned him at her entrance.
“Please, Bishop. I want you to be my first.”
He gritted his teeth so hard he thought he might break them. Her first. Her slippery warmth bathed the head of his dick and beckoned him into her with promises of ecstasy and belonging.
Just one small push is all it would take.
If he thrust his hips forward just once, he’d be inside her. That one quick movement would transform this act from something he could never do into something he’d already done. And something already done was so much easier to do again. And again.
He wanted that. Wanted his little Penelope again and again. It would be so easy to ignore all the reasons he shouldn’t.
He stopped breathing, and it took more strength than he thought he possessed, but he pulled back and shifted up, lowering his weight onto his hip and placing his dick instead on her shaved-bare mound, safely above her entrance.
Penelope bit her lip under him and made a sound of frustration, but then wriggled against his erection. “I’m so horny I can’t sleep,” she complained. “I need to come. I know you can make me orgasm, Bishop. You know how. Then I’ll go away. I promise.”
He looked down between them, wishing his eyesight was better, because in the dim light, he couldn’t clearly see what his cock looked like so close to that special spot between Penelope’s legs, and he really wanted to tuck that visual away for later.
“No, honey,” he said, but started moving against her anyway. “We can’t do things like this.” With a knee, he shoved her thighs apart, forcing her to spread wide under him. “I’m nearly ten years older than you,” he whispered. “Your legal guardian.” He ducked his chin to look at Penelope’s body underneath him and cursed. “God, help me. I can’t stop.”
She shook her head. “You don’t have to stop.”
He knew the rest of her argument, but she stopped talking and so did he. Neither of them were listening anyway. He reached between them and felt for the apex of her wetness. Dipping a finger into her folds, he found the hard nub of her clitoris. He caressed that firm spot with his first two fingers, lingering there, back and forth, up and down, hard and soft, as her breathing became more erratic.