Taboo The Collection (20 page)

He smiled, easing back in again, nice and slow. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be. It should feel good for both of us. Do you like that? Feeling filled?”

“Yes!” She gasped as he pressed in deeper, as deep as he could go.

“Touch yourself,” he told her, staying just like that, propped above her, and she looked down to where they were joined, the sight of him inside of her making her dizzy. “Do it, Clara. Rub your little pussy for me.”

She whimpered, but his urging was too much to resist. She slid her hand down and began to circle her clit with her fingers just like she’d done earlier in the shower, fantasizing about this very thing. Grover watched, his cock throbbing, swollen, moving just slightly inside of her, almost imperceptible.

“Good girl,” he murmured and she moaned when he bent to capture her nipple between his lips, sending bright hot flashes of pleasure between her legs. He suckled gently, first one, then the other, the feeling of being filled by him so incredible, she thought she might burst.

But she wanted more.

“Please,” she begged, her hips moving up, pelvis meeting his. “Please fuck me. Please. I want you.”

“Rub yourself faster,” he whispered, rocking and rolling his hips, teasing her from the inside out. He began to really fuck her and Clara cried out happily at the sensation, thrusting back up to meet him. Her pussy felt hot and swollen, so very full, and her clit ached.

“It feels good,” she gasped, feeling a familiar tightness growing in her lower belly, something coiled, waiting to be unsprung. “Oh yes, you feel so fucking good.”

“That’s it,” he panted, fucking her harder, faster, giving her more and more of just what she wanted—what she
needed.
“Do it for me, sweetheart. Come all over my hard cock!”

That was all the prompting she needed. Clara let her orgasm take her as her stepfather pounded his cock deep into her pussy, driving her pelvis into the bed again and again. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, lost in her own pleasure, but not so far gone she couldn’t register his climax.

Grover groaned and thrust deep, his belly slapping one final time against her own as he came, filling her with his cum. The moment was so overwhelmingly sweet, Clara felt like crying as he slid out of her and she cradled his head against her breasts. There were no words for a long time as, outside, the sun melted over the horizon in a fiery display of orange and red, fading into deep blues and pinks.

Then they both heard Harold bleating.

Clara frowned, looking at Grover. The sound was very close. “Is the window open?”

“No.” Her stepfather looked up as the little goat head-butted and bleated his way into the room. “The front door is though.”

“Harold! Bad, Harold!” The goat had her remains of her muddy shirt in its mouth. She looked at Grover and they both burst out laughing.

“I love you,” Grover whispered into Clara’s ear, still chuckling, ignoring Harold’s head butts against the side of the bed.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, unable to stop the tears stinging her eyes. “I never did thank you.”

He lifted his head, propped up on his elbow, looking down at her quizzically. “For what?”

“Letting me stay.”

“Oh Clara.” He lowered his forehead to hers, closing his eyes. “I wanted you to stay. I want you to stay forever.”

She brightened. “You mean it?”

“I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

Harold settled himself on the floor, chewing happily on the edge of the bedspread while his master and mistress continued to do what came natural and this time it turned out exactly as Clara had always hoped.

Becca (Daddy’s Favorites)

She was dreaming about him.

She knew it was awful. Twisted. Perverted. Even sick. It was so very wrong, on so many levels. But she couldn’t control her unconscious, could she? And maybe that was the scariest thing of all.

In her dream, he touched her. Her mother was there for once, sitting in the living room on her laptop, smoking Pall Malls and swearing under her breath. She and Duncan were at the kitchen table, in full view, sorting slate from quartz from limestone from slag.

“Look, a Petoskey stone!” In her dream, she held it up, amazed. They were a rare find—both a rock and a fossil, the result of millions of years of glacial grinding and found only in Northern Michigan—and Duncan was just as thrilled as she was.

“Wow!” He admired her find, his eyes behind his glasses bright with excitement. And that’s when she felt his hand on her knee under the table. The sensation was unmistakable, his palm warm, rubbing gently.

She swallowed and her dream-eyes met his. He’d never looked at her that way. She’d seen him admire other women like that, including her mother, at least way back when they were first married. And the other day, he’d been shocked into commenting about the new girl, who liked to wear short-short skirts and shirts that didn’t quite cover her navel. But he’d never turned to Becca with that look of lust in his eyes before.

His hand moved ever so slowly up her thigh, massaging. In her dream, she was wearing jean cut-offs, like she always did as much of the year she could get away with, and by the time his hand reached the seam of her shorts, she was so wet she was almost ready to come. And all the while, they both pretended nothing was going on, nothing at all. But she was imagining how hard his cock must be, and her pussy ached for release.

In her sleep, she whimpered, and she heard him say her name, a whisper so her mother wouldn’t hear, his mouth close to her ear, and then she was coming, her orgasm a shameful, shuddering relief.

“Becca…”

She awoke slowly, still trembling with her climax, her own hand scissored between her thighs under the covers, feeling Duncan’s presence beside her, his weight settled on the edge of her bed. Twisting toward him, she whimpered, unsure if she was awake or still dreaming until he spoke again.

“Becca, it’s time. Are you ready?”

“Mmm,” was all the answer she could manage, still too breathless to speak. Waking to find her stepfather in her bed after that dream was too surreal for words.

“Come on, sleepyhead.” He brushed the hair away from her face in the dim light, and she saw through her window, just over his shoulder, that it was still dark. “The catfish are jumpin’.”

“Comin’,” she mumbled, flushing at her choice of words, glad for the darkness. “I’ll meet you in the truck.”

She got dressed in the dark, being quiet out of habit, even though her mother wasn’t home. She’d left on another business trip last week, after being back for just three days, this time to some place in Europe. She’d called last night for her weekly check-in, informing them both that she wouldn’t be in the United States again for another month. The plant she was setting up in Italy was going to take longer than they expected.

Of course, Becca was used to her being gone. Her mother hired nannies to stay with her when Becca was little, but now she had Duncan. And Becca and Duncan had fallen into their own routine over the past two years, one more the norm than the times when her mother was actually home. She wondered sometimes if Duncan knew what he’d been signing up for when he married one of the most successful businesswomen in the country, but he didn’t seem to mind. He was busy enough with his own business, building websites and developing Apps.

Duncan had the truck running and the heater on—there was a little nip in the air—and their poles and tackle boxes were in the back. The drive to the lake was quiet and quick. Becca shivered and Duncan turned the heater up even more, but she wasn’t cold. It was an involuntary response. Her body just did things around him, without consulting her.

He parked and they moved like synchronized dancers, they’d done this so often, putting their poles and tackle into the boat, pushing it away from the dock, and hopping in barefoot, their shoes already in the boat. He grabbed one oar, she grabbed the other, and they began to row. The water was still and calm, like dusky, smoked glass.

They maneuvered the boat together into the current and Duncan slowly let down the anchor before they began baiting their hooks and tossing their lines. They each had two poles—double the chance for a whitefish dinner that night. She glanced over at him, wondering just how to ask him what she’d been so preoccupied with for the past week.

“You’re quiet this morning,” he remarked, as if reading her mind. He was still piercing his hook with one the night crawlers they kept in a cooler at their feet.

She anchored her pole, snapping it in place. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

She sat back in the boat, cross-legged and put her chin in her hand. “You know the new girl I pointed out to you?”

Duncan snorted, tossing out his line. “You didn’t have to point her out. I imagine she gets a lot of attention.”

“You can say that again.” Becca sighed. “All the boys are after her.”

“I bet they are.”

“Is that really all a girl has to do to get a boy’s attention?” Becca asked. “Wear short skirts and tight shirts?”

Duncan sighed, snapping his own rod and reel into place. “I suppose most boys would notice a girl like that.”

“You
sure did,” Becca snapped, realizing how that sounded the moment it came out of her mouth.

“Well… I’m only human.” Her stepfather smiled, pushing his glasses up his nose. He was very handsome, even with the John-Lennon-like spectacles that made him look a little too studious, with wavy dark hair and the most interesting gray eyes. They reminded her of the lake— reflective, expansive, wide-open and deep. “But just because they notice her, doesn’t mean they really like her or respect her.”

Becca laughed. “I don’t think girls like Jessica want respect.”

“That’s probably true,” her stepfather agreed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack of gum. It was always the same—Dentyne Cinnamon Ice—and sometimes she dreamed about the smell of it. He offered her a piece, just like always, and she took it, tucking the wrapper into her pocket and the gum in her mouth.

“I wish boys looked at me that way,” she said, watching the line of orange growing along the horizon as the taste of cinnamon exploded in her mouth.

Duncan frowned and shook his head, snapping his gum. “No you don’t.”

“Yes I do,” she insisted, remembering how Jessica had flounced through the halls, her long tanned legs looking even longer in impossibly high heels, her skirt so short it barely covered the curve of her ass. Her t-shirt was white with some logo on the front, but she’d been braless underneath, her dark nipples clearly visible. Even the principal, who had given her a warning about her attire, but who hadn’t sent her home, had stared unabashedly at the way her nipples poked against her shirt. “Just once I’d like to turn heads like that.”

“You’re a beautiful girl, Becca.” Duncan reached over, putting a hand on her knee, and she immediately flashed back to her dream, feeling her body fill with heat. “You don’t need any of that to get boys to notice you.”

“If you say so.” She bit her lip, feeling his hand moving, oh god, just like in her dream, kneading her flesh, ever so slowly.
Yes, yes, yes,
she thought, bowing her head and closing her eyes in anticipation, letting her dark hair cover her flushed cheeks. She couldn’t believe this was really happening, finally, finally…

And then he withdrew his hand, clearing his throat and fiddling with his rod and reel. “Any guy who’s attracted to the Becca I know—the girl who likes baiting hooks and stalking deer and sailing—is going to like you for who you are. And who you are is pretty amazing.”

She sighed. “If you say so.”

“Trust me.” He patted her knee, but his hand didn’t linger this time. “Besides, if you ever leave my house looking like that Jessica girl, I’ll…”

“You’ll what?”

He gave her a dark look. “I’ll
spank your ass until you can’t sit down.”

“You got a bite.” She gulped, nodding toward his fishing pole—the line had gone taut.

Duncan reached for his rod and Becca watched, dejected. She really didn’t care about all the silly boys in school. Most of them didn’t interest her at all. The truth was, the one guy she really longed to have notice her that way was reeling in their first catch of the morning, and she didn’t know if he would ever look at her that way.

But she desperately wanted him to.

* * * *

She’d spent an entire afternoon at the mall trying on outfits. Her job at the bait and tackle shop gave her some extra spending money and she’d been saving up for a new Mossberg hunting rifle
, but right now, this seemed far more important. Her best friend, Ashe, had given his two thumbs up in the end. She couldn’t remember how she and Ashe had become friends, somewhere back in the third grade, but he’d been her true companion ever since, and the fact he was gay—he confessed at some point in middle school—had always made things even better between them somehow. There was no pressure and it was easy to be the best of friends.

“You are going to knock him flat on his ass.”

She’d cocked her hip and pouted. “Who?”

“Whatever guy you’re doing this for.”

“I’m not doing it for a guy.”

Ashe had laughed. “You’re the world’s worst liar.”

Okay, so it was true. But she wouldn’t tell him who, even when he begged and threw a temper tantrum in the middle of the mall like the drama queen he was, threatening to leave if she didn’t tell. It was the first thing in a long time she couldn’t tell Ashe.

But he’d gotten over it by the time he picked her up for school on Monday. Duncan had a rare day off and was still asleep when she slipped out of the house. She thought wearing the outfit to school would work on two levels—it would throw Ashe off the trail, confirming it must be some guy at school she was trying to impress, and it would serve as a test run. If the boys at school looked twice, she’d know she hit the mark.

Turned out, it was a perfect bulls eye. Turned out, all a girl needed was a short skirt, a tight shirt that showed off some cleavage, and a lot of make-up to attract a boy’s attention.
Every
boy’s attention, it seemed. So much attention it began to be uncomfortable in class. The girls whispered and glared, but the boys—guys who hadn’t noticed her in cut-offs and Polos in an entire four years of high school—were suddenly boys falling over themselves trying to talk to her before and after class. She even managed to usurp the attention that had been heaped on the new girl, whose black cat suit-type outfit seemed tame in comparison to Becca’s skin-revealing bits of cloth.

Every time she moved, she was aware of her body. The slip of her tank-tee strap, revealing an expanse of brown shoulder, the crossing of her legs pulling her skirt far too up her thigh—but not crossing them revealed the black thong Ashe had insisted she wear underneath the incredibly short, hot-pink skirt they’d chosen. Then there was the hardening of her nipples under her white tank-tee when someone opened one of the classroom windows—she could have sworn it was on purpose—which made her braless state even more prominent.

So it turned out her theory was correct—dressing provocatively got a girl all sorts of attention, turned heads and made everyone talk. As it also turned out, it landed her in the principal’s office with a call home to Duncan to either come pick her up or bring her a change of clothing. That was after one of her teachers had given up trying to keep the class’s attention off Becca’s long, tanned legs in four-inch spiked high heels.

Duncan chose the former, showing up at the school with a scowl, following the principal into his office with another backward glare at her. She waited, head down, for the door to open again, her heart leaping to her throat when it finally did.

“We’re going home.” Duncan strode past her on his way out, but she’d already gathered that much.

Becca followed, struggling to keep up, unsteady in her shoes, the heels clattering on the tiles. He’d brought the truck, and she had to practically jump up into the passenger side, something she wasn’t used to. When she finally managed to get into the seat, she saw Duncan was watching her, his face slightly red, and she wondered how much she had revealed in her gymnastics.