Her blue eyes, half-mast and heavy with lust, stare up at me. I’m so fucking close.

Cupping her chin, I tip her face up, ordering, “Come for me. Now.”

She’s so damn responsive. When I press down on her lips with my thumb, her body tenses up, and her mouth parts on a silent scream.

“Fuck,” I growl, letting go of my control. My fingers dig into her chin as jets of cum shower over her chest and belly.

When I’ve milked my dick dry, I zip myself away and drag my fingers through the cum on her chest. As I bring them up to her lips, she surprises me by seizing my wrist and snatching my digits up with her hot, hungry mouth. She sucks them clean, then whispers, “More, Daddy.”

I trail my fingers through it again and drag them over her tongue as she sticks it out and flattens it like a good girl. Then I do it again and again until my little whore is satisfied.

“Good girl,” I praise, grabbing her chin and forcing her gaze up to mine. “If you ever let another man see you like this, Willow…”

Releasing her, I let my threat hang in the air between us as I walk out.

With any luck, she won’t remember this tomorrow, and I can go back to pretending I’m a good guy. I said I shouldn’t cross the line. Well, I just did.

CHAPTER 11

WILLOW

FEBRUARY 12TH, 2016

“Mom?” I call out, wincing as I descend the carpeted stairs. My head hurts after the copious amount of alcohol I consumed last night.

Nothing but silence greets me. It snowed in the night, and the house is cold. An inch of snow covers the window. Stepping into the kitchen, I gaze at the flurries outside before rubbing my arms to ward off the chill. There’s a note on the kitchen island.

There’s a pasta dish in the fridge.

Mom.

I leave it where it is and walk back out. The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I make my way down the hallway to the living room. I should get ready for school, but I don’t. Instead, I snuggle up beneath a blanket on the couch and stare at the snowflakes through the patio doors. The lawn is white, peppered with animal footprints that lead into the forest where our yard ends. The trees, with their spindly branches, are covered in a dusting of snow. I love this time of the year, even if I don’t enjoy the cold. There’s a peacefulness about winter that can’t be found in summer—a silence. Not the oppressive kind that lives in my house. This is gentle, a whisper on the breeze, urging me closer.

I’m just about to drift off to sleep when there’s a knock on the door. I startle awake, and when it comes again, I throw off my quilt. With my arms wrapped around myself, I enter the hallway, wishing I had put on my bathrobe. It’s too cold for sleep shorts and a T-shirt.