Page 16 of Wicked Sins

Candy’s never had to be responsible for someone else. I bet her days were spent doing whatever the fuck she wanted, no one else to worry about, her doting mother taking care of everything.

Polar opposite from my childhood.

I’ve been taking care of Emma since she was born; Dad never really knew how to handle her.

Taking the hot chocolate with me—I’ll make Emma a fresh cup when she wakes up—I head upstairs. My bedroom door slams closed, and I stare at it for a second.

Relax, Jo. Nothing good ever comes from you losing your temper.

Candy, Emma, Diana—I wish I could shake them until their teeth rattle. And then yell at them, tell them the world isn’t a play park full of carousels and crazy fucking teacup rides.

People get hurt. They die.

I fall into the seat by my study desk and glare at the silhouette on my computer monitor.

Why hadn’t I just gone with Emma to the pool? My essay could have waited for half an hour.

Unlike Candy, I don’t come home every afternoon and take a five-hour nap. I’m getting a scholarship to Cornell. I don’t need it, Dad can easily afford to send me there, but I want to prove to the world that I’m not just some dumb jock.

I nudge my mouse with a knuckle, and my screen lights up. When I read the first few visible lines of the essay I’d been drafting, my lip lifts into a sneer.

Where the hell had I even been going with that?

Fuck this.

I close the document, not bothering to save the piece of shit attempt, and open up my browser instead. A few letters typed into the address bar has one of my regular haunts auto-populating.

Just need to let off a little steam, then I can attempt that fucking essay again. Hopefully, this time, no one will drown while I’m busy.

A chick starts panting into the speakers. I hurriedly turn down the volume on the video, and instead open my music app to stream one of my playlists. Then I turn up the volume really loud, drowning out the constant flow of negative thoughts streaming through my mind.

I shift in my seat, glance behind my shoulder at my closed bedroom door, and shove a hand down my sweats as I look back at the screen.

Thank God for credit cards, because shit this good is almost always hidden behind a paywall.

The girl’s panting changes into a breathless yell, and then the true begging begins.

My cock hardens in my hand. I stroke it as I watch someone’s demented fantasy playing out on the screen.

I’m not sure how many guys there are—maybe three?—but they have the petite little porn star tied up on her belly on a medieval-looking slab.

There’s some slack on the ropes—her knees are up, and her elbows bent—so when she fights them, there’s plenty of action.

One of them holds open her legs, splaying open her shaved pussy and a bleached hole for the camera moments before one of the masked actors spears into her with a massive cock.

A groan rumbles out my throat as my dick turns to concrete in my hands. I’m usually fine with keeping it in my pants—ha! Truer words were never spoken—but a decent find like this deserves more than a quick wank.

Also, for some reason, I can’t get the thought of Candy’s frightened blue eyes out of my head.

She’s been in my mind a lot these days. At first, I thought it was just her invasion into my serene life. With her and Diana here day in and day out, the Bale house feels like a freak show.

It used to be quiet. Dad’s away a lot, and Emma likes to play with dolls in her room most afternoons. I’d have the entire house to myself.

But now I’m all too aware of the presence just a few yards away. Emma’s room is between ours, but that doesn’t matter. I can still feelherthere. A strange new soul that spills into my thoughts more often than feels normal.

I’m almost at the point of obsessing over her, and for the life of me, I don’t understand why I could give a fuck.

On screen, the guys take turns plowing into their little captive as she screams and begs them to stop. The tears are real, but even actors can cry on cue, right?

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