Page 175 of Wanting What's Wrong

Would he call me his good girl?

Would he make me beg?

My breaths are coming in uneven sort of gasps between swallowing down the spit gathering under my tongue. I press my thighs tighter, like I can hold the heat in, but it’s no use. It’s flooding me. Soaking through the edges of my shame.

“You have a problem there, little girl?” Cal gives me this look, sort of bored, but not really. Like behind his eyelids there’s a full-on porn show happening, and I’m the star.

I sit up in the seat, doing a quarter turn that has his fingertips now resting solidly on my collarbone. “I have a little problem, yeah.” I gather my hair in one hand, and pull it down over the other shoulder, so there’s nothing between his fingers and my skin. “You think you can fix it?”

I run my tongue along my lower lip, the old dance of teasing brat and stoic step-father coming back like we’re both riding a bike.

I’ve imagined what it would feel like fucking him too many times to pretend I don’t want it now. Every inch of him, from top to bottom, side to side and root to tip.

I wonder if I could take it. Would he take me on my side, missionary, bang me like a bitch in heat from the behind, shoving those thick fingers into my ass then making me lick his cock clean before my loosed-up ass takes his meat for round two?

Oh yeah, I’ve imagined it all.

“I’m pretty sure I can fix whatever ails you, yeah. My question is, is your teasing ass gonna be ready for what it’s asking for?”

“Time will tell,” I answer as he turns the truck into the parking lot of The Last Shot, the gun shop his grandparents started, that I only ever heard about in stories. His parents were both killed when he was younger. That’s all I know.

As he throws the truck it into park and shuts off the engine, the fingers that were brushing my shoulder slide to the back of my neck, and he takes a handful of my hair to tug my head back.

I hiss on a shocked inhale.

“Listen here.” He smacks his lips together, eyes narrow, the green a thin line around the black hole of his iris. “I did my best to put up with your teasing when I was with your mother, but Imma tell you right fucking now, you keep that up? Shit ain’t gonna end like it used to, with me walking away. So, keep it up, little girl. Those big girl tits of yours grew about ten sizes since I went away. But so did my dick. You’re eighteen now, and my cock knows it.”

He's calling my bluff and with all my bravado, I’m not sure I’m ready for what he’s bringing to the table. But, at the same time, I’m not so smart I can’t get myself in more trouble. “Ever wonder what it would be like? Fucking the daughter after you had the mom?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “We’ll never find out. Me and your mom never consummated our union so to speak. You know what that means?”

I swallow hard. “I know.”

“Right. Never touched her that way. So, be a good girl and behave for three fucking seconds, okay?” he snaps, and my panties take a direct hit.

This is going to be a problem.

A dirty, soaking, delicious problem.

Two

Jenna

The bell over the door jingles as we step inside the gun shop, the smell of oil and wood cleaner curling around my senses.

I blink, adjusting to the dimness from the bright summer light outside.

“Well, you didn’t lie.” A woman’s sharp, playful voice grabs my ears as I get just inside the glass door. I swivel my head in the direction of her voice, taking her in as she points a crooked finger my way, nodding at Cal. “She is a tiny thing, ain’t she? You could carry that girl around on your hip like a baby.”

She’s leaning a locked arm on the glass-front case filled with black metal, stainless steel and boxes of what I assume are bullets. The shop is about the size of my mother’s rental house, but neat as a pin, well lit, manufacturers’ colorful logos painted on the walls with leather and canvas holsters, backpacks and what looklike fancy fanny packs hanging in neat rows on stainless steel hooks.

I offer a little wave, adjusting the straps of my backpack on my shoulders, praying the pads in my bra hold out for another minute before I can make an excuse and find someplace to relieve the building pressure in my boobs.

Her white hair is twisted up in a no-nonsense knot, her face a patchwork of wrinkles and mischief. Her eyes cut straight to me, sharp and assessing. Then down. To my chest. Then back up again.

“Well damn,” she drawls, just leaving it hanging there, making my chest tighten as Cal eases me forward with a hand on the back of my head like you would a toddler.

My cheeks ignite. The throbbing in my cheek and under my eye is replaced by a stronger throbbing between my legs. A clearer calling than when Cal first came to live with us for those few months.

---