Page 78 of Bittersweet

Sweet girl, trust me. You want to listen to me. Daddy will make you feel so fucking good if you do.

I try to transmit the words to her through some kind of mind meld, my own heart thumping erratically with a mix of anticipation and panic.

What if she fights me?

I don’t do fighting.

I do sweet and docile.

The moments span what feels like days but are truly just a few seconds, eyes locked, a battle of wills.

And then her small pink tongue peeks out, wetting her lips and rolling them together.

And her hands begin again, pushing down the lacy pink underwear.

And she does it slowly.

I groan a little. It can’t be helped.

“Good girl,” I say before moving my eyes to the fabric, savoring every inch of revealed flesh.

But not before I catch her eyes flare just the tiniest bit with my words.

Potential.

There’s fuckingpotentialthere.

My cock twitches again, agreeing with my thoughts.

I move my shorts down quickly when her underwear hits the floor, leaving me in just my boxer briefs. Her eyes move to where my hand is adjusting my painfully hard dick through my underwear, and the woman licks her lips again.

So much fucking potential. My mind is moving without my conscious approval, creating scenarios where I can keep this woman in my bed indefinitely.

I need to move on.

“Sit on the bed, Lola.” Again, a flash, the need to disobey.

But then she sits on the edge of the dark comforter. “Open your legs, sweet girl.” A sharp intake of breath, another internal panic that she won’t do what I say, but there it is.

Thick, milky-white thighs open for me, revealing a perfectly pink, wet pussy.

“Fuuuuckk,” I say, the sound coming from deep in my throat without my permission, but really, what else do you say when your dream cunt is just a foot away begging for your dick or your hands or your mouth? “Spread yourself for me.” Her eyes move to me, panic clear.

Ahh, this is new for her.

Interesting.

“I know you know how to, baby.” We haven’t talked about that text, the one that indefinitely changed the track of my mind when thinking of Lola, the one where I realized she came with my fucking name on her lips.

I expect the argument now.

Or at least the denial.

But no.

As seems to be her style, Lola Turner shocks me when two pink-painted pointer fingers go to either side of that wet pussy and pull it open for my eyes to see.

And then she takes it a step further, locking eyes with me and swiping a finger through her wet, from her entrance to where she circles her clit at the top, letting out a breathy noise.

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