Page 1 of The Enforcer

Chapter One

Joaquin

It was no secret that Kenna Canteberry was the most gorgeous girl to walk the planet. With luscious gold hair and blue eyes, curves like the back roads I used to drive when I was a kid, and legs that went all the way up to her neck, Kenna was every male's fantasy.

Including mine.

She had the perfect pout that made my cock hard. Stuff like that didn't happen to me anymore. I was too old for that shit. But some goddamn twenty-year-old walked by me with those lips curled up into a small smirk like she knew - like she fucking knew - what she did to me.

I saw her every Sunday for football. Matt invited me over for the game for some male bonding time. We had been friends since college. He married, had a kid. I, on the other hand, traveled and started my own photography business. I took pictures of scenery and animals and got published in National Geographic. That sort of thing. Matt seemed to think I was lonely. I had women in my bed nearly every night.

But none of them were her.

None were Kenna.

Of course, I could never tell Matt this.

"Yeah, how do you think the Packers are going to do this year? And oh, by the way, I really want to fuck your daughter."

But Jesus, I thought about it. Multiple times. A lot of the time, I can only come when I picture those gold-green eyes looking up at me, her lips curling into a smile as she urges me on. I didn't even have to be with anyone to fantasize about her. Every time I showered, I couldn't help but think of her, of those supple breasts spilling out of her bikinis as she walked around the house like she wasn't some kind of goddess.

I wanted to drink from her, to suck those nipples like I was feeding from her, to slide my cock up her tight pussy, her folds already spilling with juices that tasted like ambrosia.

I always thought of her every morning in the shower. I liked to rationalize that coming kept me focused. It helped my stamina, so if I did meet a woman I would eventually take home, I wouldn't release quickly.

I nearly snorted at that. I never had a problem with coming too fast.

I was a goddamn pervert and that was it.

This Sunday was the Broncos versus Patriots game, two teams I didn't particularly give a shit about. Which was always the worst, considering it left me open to fantasize if she walked by.

Kenna wasn't into sports so she rarely made an appearance unless she was headed for the fridge. I had no idea how she did it, but that girl could eat a whole bag of sour cream and onion Ruffles and not gain an ounce of fat. She was curved to perfection in my opinion, toned in all the right places, soft in others.

Like I said. The perfect porn star. Every man's fantasy.

The thought of a man thinking about her that way made me growl to myself. This sudden surge of jealousy was completely uncharacteristic. I did not get fucking jealous. Kenna was nowhere near me, and yet I was acting as though she belonged to me.

I was so far gone, it was pathetic.

Matt was sitting in his chair; I was on the couch. The halftime report was going off, but I wasn't listening. Matt took everything in. He owned his own construction company and worked his ass off during the week. He liked to lose himself in a couple of beers and football over the weekend, especially since his daughter was full-grown and his wife was upstate, taking care of her sick mom.

At that moment, the object of my fantasy made her appearance. Her golden hair was parted down the middle and braided into pigtails. She wore a red and white plaid shirt - plaid, Jesus, did she know my fantasies? -and skin-tight baby blue jeans. How she even managed to fit in them, I didn't know, but I wasn't complaining. It gave me more to work with when I was by myself.

"Hey Joaquin," she murmured as she walked past us into the kitchen.

Matt would murder me if he caught me, but I let me gaze linger on that supple ass for as long as I could. I thought I grunted my reply but I couldn't be sure. Did it really matter? Like she gave any shit about me.

She grabbed a box of Oreos before turning around quickly to the point where she nearly caught me staring. As she walked past me again, I could smell the vanilla wafting from her like some kind of halo.

"Hey Joaquin," she said again, stopping directly in front of me. Her torso was positioned in front of my face thanks to where I was on the couch, and I forced myself to look up into her eyes because I needed to not stare at her breasts when her gaze was on me. "Are you going to be at your studio tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I replied gruffly. I took a quick gulp of beer to moisten my throat. I didn't need it cracking like a goddamn teenager’s. I stopped myself from asking why. I didn't want her to know how badly I fucking cared.

"Would you mind if I stopped by and asked about a potential album I wanted to do for my boyfriend?" she asked.

I felt like a fucking balloon that had just popped. Instead, I cleared my thrust and nodded. "Sure," I told her, leaning further into the couch. "Come by around nine."

She nodded and gave me a grin that matched the mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

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