Page 101 of Wanting What's Wrong

But one thing remains the same.

She’s mine. During those first years, I told myself it was an obligation. Paternal instinct. Fuck, I’ve never had a paternal instinct in my life.

Until Lennie.

She awoke instincts hidden for millennia in my DNA. I’m a fucking caveman, possessive, sick, twisted guardian to my stepdaughter.

I did whatever it took to keep it under control.

I worked out until I damn near killed myself.

I punched walls.

I threw any fucking asshole that gave her a second look onto his ass.

I fucking meditated, for Christ's sake. I even considered therapy.

I gave up jerking off until she was eighteen because I knew, as soon as I got my hand on my dick, it would be Lennie I’d think of, and I was going to keep my shit straight when it came to her.

Then, she was legal and I lost my motherfucking mind. What made it worse was I could see how she looked to me for comfort. For care. And I gave her that in my own way. But I had to keep my distance. I was a bomb ready to explode and take her out with me.

“You better be careful.” Davis breaks me from my trance. “I see you…”

He‘s still talking, but I can’t focus because Lennie is gone again. Davis is going on about our new Century City real estate development deal, which will damn near double our net worth if I nail down the contract next week.

My mind is full of Lennie, and my fucking cock is so hard it’s about to rip through my black slacks. I have a permanent imprint of every zipper in every pair of pants I own up the bottom side of my dick. I’ve already jerked off to my newest video of Lennie taken this morning as she took a morning swim, wearing her usual yellow one-piece covered by one of my oversized t-shirts and a pair of swim shorts.

I love how conservative she is about showing her body, but fuck all, I need toseeit. Touch it. Taste it. Lick every drop of honeydew from that cherry pussy and tell the world to go to hell.

“Where you going?” Davis asks, holding up his phone, “Dalton Henry just texted. He’s here. We want to get him nailed down. He’s shopping agents…”

“Everyone is shopping agents tonight.” I snuff out my cigarin my ice water and head toward the glass stairway leading up to where I saw Lennie in a flash a minute ago.

“She’sfine—” he starts, but I cut him off with a glare.

“That’s for me to decide,” I bark, the tension in my temples radiating down the back of my skull bursting into knots down my shoulders and into my lower back.

I’ve always kept tabs on her. Whether she’s in my home, with my bodyguards, or with Davis, this is the first time I’ve not had eyes on her outside of my home, and it’s not right.

Something is not right.

Then, there she is. She’s on the landing to my left, and Ryan-fucking-Nolan, little fucking baby bitch it-boy of the moment, is handing her a glass of champagne.

Lennie doesn’t drink.

He’s filthy just like his family. I know his mother. I was her agent for a hot minute a decade ago but she was too fucking messy for me. Evil too. She’s mean for sport and when I dumped her ass in the middle of a contract negotiation for a starring role in what she thought would be her shot at some real recognition, she did her best to bad mouth me to anyone that would listen.

Luckily, no one did. She’s had a special sort of hate for me ever since, but she’s got no teeth. She can’t hurt me. But, her fucking son is with the most important thing in the world to me right now, and if he so much as brushes against her, I’ll tear his lungs out through his fucking asshole.

Lennie smiles, and my fingers curl into fists. She giggles at something he says, her tits jiggle, more beautiful than any woman here, and for a second, a micro-second, I consider that she deserves a happy life.

She deserves to meet someone her age, someone appropriate, and someone that is not her father, for all intents and purposes.

Fuck.

That.

That’s not going to happen. I rock back on my heels, takinga centering breath like Malasia, the yogi I hired to help Lennie with her OCD and ADHD, taught me.

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