Page 32 of My Soul for Sale

I lie in bed, my gaze fixated on the ceiling. My thoughts swirl in a whirlwind, leaving me feeling lost. What the hell is wrong with me?

Last night, I felt attracted to Sloane, an unexpected feeling I couldn't quite understand. But I made excuses and left her to talk to Atlas. I know how much Sloane means to him, how desperately he longed for this reunion. So, I retreated to my room, hoping to sleep and forget the whole auction.

But the desire still simmered beneath the surface, a boiling pot that threatened to spill over. I jerked off, violently stroking my cock to the vision of her on that stage. Yet, even with cum covering my hand and blankets, it didn’t stop my wanting for her.

This morning, when I saw her in the kitchen, wearing nothing but my son's shirt, a surge of jealousy coursed through me. She should have been wearing my shirt, smelling like my soap, my scent lingering on her skin. Instead, she stood there, a picture of beauty, and I couldn't control my mouth.

I lashed out, accusing her of things I knew weren't true. I just wanted her to leave, to get away from me, but instead of crying and fleeing, she slapped me.

Within seconds, her body was pressed against me, her lips locked with mine. I had never experienced such wanting before. The feel of her cunt gripping me like a glove as I pounded into her. I was rough, too rough, and she ran from the room, tears staining her cheeks.

When Atlas came down to scold me, I didn’t know what to tell him, how to explain what happened. I couldn't let him know that I was suddenly infatuated with the same woman he was, that I’ve spent every minute since we saw Sloane consumed by her.

I pulled my head out of my ass and apologized earlier, but watching Atlas touch her all evening drove me insane.

Now, as I lie here, images of her fill my mind. Her sandy hair, her piercing blue eyes, her curves for days.

I remind myself that I only have to make it through tomorrow night. She wouldn't tell us why she needed the money, leaving us to speculate about her motives. I’m guessing we’ll drop her off tomorrow and she won't be seen or heard from again.

With a heavy feeling, I close my eyes, praying for some semblance of peace in the darkness.

The door to my room opens, and a sliver of light from the hallway filters into the room, illuminating Sloane's silhouette in that damn shirt once again.

"What is it, Sloane? Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yeah," she whispers back. "Atlas is out cold, but I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I keep replaying this morning. You were so angry, so cold. But then tonight... you were different. What's going on?"

"Come in and close the door," I instruct her, my tone firm but not rude.

She obeys, padding over to the bed and slipping under the covers beside me.

"We didn't expect to see you at the auction. I think that much is obvious. Seeing you on that stage, then having you in my house—" I falter, my words catching in my throat. "It's stirred up feelings I haven't felt in a long time. I acted out of character this morning. It won't happen again."

"So you won't fuck me again?" she teases, her voice tinged with a playful edge, though I can't quite make out her expression in the dark room.

"Don't push it, little girl," I grunt.

"Push what?" She inches closer until her ass is pressed against me, my hard cock digging into her flesh.

I can't deny the pull between us. Despite my attempts to keep my emotions in check, I find myself wanting her in a way I can't fully comprehend. And as she presses herself against me, teasing and tempting, I know that I’m about to go back on what I just said.

This… this is definitely happening again.

I roll so I’m on top of her, pushing that fucking shirt up over her large tits. Instantly my mouth finds her taut nipple, surrounded by the tan areola. I suck on the stiff peak before biting down and tugging on it.

Sloane tangles a hand in my hair roughly, and I smile, her nipple still between my teeth. I kiss my way across her breast and sternum to her other tit and repeat my actions.

Sliding a hand down to her core, I dip my hand under the band of her panties and slip my fingers through her folds.

“You like playing in Daddy’s bed, don’t you, naughty girl?”

She moans, but that’s not what I want. I want to hear her say it. That she loves this, that she’s just as fucked as me.

“Say it,” I growl, biting her nipple hard.

“Yes!” she whines. “I like playing with Daddy.”

God, that word. I never saw myself as someone who would enjoy being called Daddy in the bedroom. But fuck if it’s not the hottest thing ever when it’s Sloane. Maybe it’s the taboo of the situation, the forbidden fruit that I can’t wait to taste.

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