Price #2
Her playful eyes turn shy and sad as she tugs a shoulder upward. “Yes, Sir. Big brothers are mean.”
Those words render me helpless and speechless.
Yes, Sir.
Big brother.
What the fuck is next? The tightness in my chest increases. I want to protect her with every inch of my being. Having her soft body against me, all the reasons this can’t happen blow away like ashes in the wind.
Lying next to me, she seems even smaller than before, but everywhere our bodies touch feels right.
Again, I mentally list all the reasons this can’t happen, but now, they don’t seem to matter.
If I walked away, I’d destroy this place on my way out. Flipping over all the little lace-covered tables and bloodying my knuckles on every mirror as I punched them, hating the sight of my own face.
As if she’s reading my mind, her hand comes to rest on my cheek. There’s a tightness in her face like she wants to smile, but something is holding it back.
“Just—” I grimace toward the ceiling, gathering the strength and courage to tell her I have to leave, but the trust in her eyes is throwing me for a loop.
Her opulent tits are now spilling out of the top of her shirt.
The snap that was holding them in must have popped when I caught her from fake-falling, and all I can think about is shoving my dick between those soft mounds, her mouth wide, tongue out as I buck my hips, straddling her body, delivering a creamy white shower all over her fucking face.
When her hand drifts south, fingers walking down my chest, over my clenched abs to stop on my belt buckle, I’m frozen in time.
“Are you faking, too?” she whisper-hisses, rubbing her knuckles down the obvious length of my arousal, and I’m one second from erupting in my pants.
I bolt up off the bed, the loss of her touch and her softness next to me sending me into a wave of dark grief, but there’s no way this can happen.
It’s not just my no-women-until-my-daughter-is-grown-up vow, or my focus on the camp, but, Jesus, she’s half in the bag.
I might not understand people, but I know the difference between right and wrong.
No way I’m fucking a girl without her being present.
Correction, dick, no way you’re fucking any girl.
Confusion and the pain in my balls has me barreling toward the door I assume leads to the bathroom.
Inside, I don’t bother with the light, slamming the hard oak door behind me and falling against the nearest wall.
My brains have gone offline, because within a second I’ve got my belt unbuckled, zipper down, rage fucking my fist, begging for a shred of relief so I can think straight and leave this perfect girl untouched.
But even in my lust blindness, I realize the space is stuffy and small, my breathing muffled.
I’m not in the bathroom. I’m in the fucking closet.
My engorged dick doesn’t care, my breathing is ragged as the vision of tit-fucking her on that nightmare of a comforter that looks like a flower shop threw up everywhere taunts me from behind my closed lids.
“Fuck!” I grunt, as I get my shaft in my hand and squeeze.
Even in my madness, I won’t touch her, no matter how tempting the offer. She’s drunk. Drunk enough that even with consent, it wouldn’t count.
So I’m leaning against the wall in a fucking closet, with my johnson in my hand, the taste of that god awful blow job shot like vomit in my mouth.
A soft knock on the door is followed immediately by the knob turning. In my haste, I didn’t bother with the small detail of seeing if the door had a lock.
“Are you okay?” Daisy’s concern is the calm to my bellowing storm, as my hand rifles back and forth on my shaft, desperate for a shred of relief.
“Fine. Just…” Another five strokes, faster, faster. “I need…a…minute.” I grimace against the impending orgasm, my hand moving in a fury in the darkness, her face taunting me in my imagination.
I grab at the knob. Just another stroke, two, and I’ll be done. Just keep the door closed a few more seconds---
The metal knob pulls off into my hand, the door swings open, a slice of light cutting across my face and down my body, illuminating the source of my madness.
Daisy’s cheeks ripen again, eyes wide as I thrust into my jacking grip, dropping the brass knob to the floor with a clunk.
Her hands fly to cover her open mouth, but I can’t stop.
I’m not available for what I see in her eyes. I’m not available, period. I had to do something to convince her of that fact. I need her to see me for what I am. A man without fucking availability. A man that has nothing to offer a girl like her.
My heart is already involved, and that’s more dangerous than any mountain I’ve climbed or wilderness I’ve conquered.
She would expect attention, a home, time, a reasonable man, and she deserves to be the center of someone’s world, but I already orbit around Hailey.
My bandwidth for anything else is non-existent.
“You like what you do to me?” I say, the words taking on a harder edge.
“I’m sorry?” she says breathlessly, and I notice she’s now barefooted. Her toenails are painted in various shades of pink and red, like the petals of the flowers all over the walls that surround her.
“I’m not the kind of man you need, Daisy.”
“How do you know what I need?” Her hands brush the crease of her cleavage, the tips of her fingers toying with the fabric where the snap is barely keeping the shirt from exposing her swelling breasts.
The charge of lust in her eyes tells me what she’s about to do before it happens, and I’m helpless to stop it.
Her fingers work the knot holding up the plaid shirt just under her breasts, then she works the snaps open as my hand moves in a blur, taking in the perfection in front of me.
She’s wearing a lace-trimmed cotton bra slash tank top, which she pushes down under her breasts, letting them fall free over the fabric, and they are even better than I could have imagined.
Desire and anger merge inside of me again, as I imagine her coming here with someone else. Someone that would take everything she’s offering and probably more.
“You shouldn’t have let me come up here with you,” I say hoarsely, reaching out and taking a fist of her hair. “It’s dangerous. I won’t touch you. I just need…relief.”
To my shock, she’s fallen to her knees, tongue tracing on her lips. “You don’t have to touch me. But I can touch you.”
God, how do I teach her a lesson without giving in to my urges? I want her to kick me out, push me away. Why can’t she see me for what I am? Unavailable, broken and way below her paygrade.
“You know what men do to drunk girls that invite them back to their room?” I demand, my hand slowing, letting her see the monstrosity of what she’s done.
“No. I’ve never invited a man back to my room. Drunk or not. I’ve never done much of …anything.” She glides her tongue along her bottom lip, looking up at my dick as her hands press on the tension of my thighs.
“I’m going to teach you then.” Pain shoots behind my eyes and I snap. “Open your mouth, and I’m going to show you.”
“I’m ready for my lesson—”
I snuff out whatever else she was going to say with my dick between her lips. How much can a man take?
“That’s what men think about when you’re around.
All those guys in the bar, this is what they were imagining while they were buying you shots.
” My words are muffled in the enclosed closet.
Folded sheets and blankets are piled on shelves, empty metal hangers rattling as I cling to the bar, my knees trembling with the warmth of her welcoming mouth.
I release her hair, my hand slipping around the granite-hard length, and I start to pump the skin up and down as her lips pop around the ridge of the head, encasing me in wet warmth.
“Jesus.” My eyes roll back as I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting off the orgasm that is already inching up from my balls, ready to empty before I get a single pump down her pretty throat.
I jack off as she pulls away and I watch in horror and awe as she makes a throaty sound, then drops a blob of spit on the swollen head, smiling like she just won the biggest stuffed animal at the country fair.
“I saw some Tiktok where the girl said ‘you gotta spit on that thang’.”