Page 25 of Off-Limits
Arrie’s best friend.
Why does that make my already hard cock, harder? This cannot be happening. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I turn away from her because I can see she’s embarrassed, and to also hide my erection.
I’ve never looked at Dorothy as anything other than my little niece that tagged along everywhere Arrie and I went, but damn it to fucking hell, she is not a little girl anymore.
This is not happening.
Why the hell did I think coming home unannounced was agood idea? And why the hell didn’t Arrie tell me she was letting Dottie stay in my apartment? I try to keep level-headed, but the anger simmers beneath. Not because of Dottie being here, or my daughter not telling me anyone was staying in my apartment, but because of my reaction after seeing what I just saw.
I haven’t seen Dorothy since she her graduation, but I’d know those big violet-coloured eyes anywhere. The awkward teenager I remember is gone, and in its place is a beautiful, young woman.
A young woman I just watched come from the shadows of my lounge room like a creep.
A young woman that made my dick hard, who also happens to be my step-niece.
It’s not right.
Did I mention I’m going to hell?
I hear rustling behind me, and some things hitting the floor before silence. It’s deafening how quiet it is, but all I can focus on is her breathing. Shallow, fast… jittery, and it sure as hell isn’t helping my current situation.
I’ve been riding for the last three days straight, only stopping when I had to sleep or eat. I was hoping to come home, collapse in my perfectly comfortable bed, and sleep for twelve hours straight.
That isn’t happening now.
“Uncle Damon?” She curses, and I find a smirk playing at the corner of my lips for some stupid reason.
Slowly turning around, I find her pulling the hem of my shirt down to cover herself, but the damn thing is barely covering her pussy. Swallowing again, I lock eyes with hers, and I see the embarrassment and nervousness clinging to the corner of them.
I want to reassure her, but my feet are rooted to theground. I’m finding it difficult to form a coherent sentence while looking at the woman I used to save from her deadbeat parents as a child, to the vixen standing in front of me.
It’s not fucking right.
Forcing a smile that I know she will know isn’t genuine, I hope my next words will at least calm her nerves a little, even though I know they’ll do nothing to temper my resolve and thoughts right now.
“Sweet Dottie.”
“Argh, don’t call me that.” she groans, lifting her hands to cover her face.
I fucking chuckle.
Not the time or place, asshole!
“Just Dottie then.”
She nods her head through her covered face, and I smirk. It’s cute. Fuck, I need my head read. Dropping my bags on the floor, they clamour loudly in the space and Dottie jumps and removes her hands from her face.
We lock eyes again but say nothing, and we stay that way for way too long to be appropriate. When she draws her lip into her mouth, I shake the stupor off and step forward.
She steps back and slips on something.
I rush forward and grip her forearm.
“Shit!” she cries out, her hand coming down on mine, sending a jolt throughout my entire body.
Clenching my teeth, I make sure she’s standing before glancing down to see that it was paint she almost slipped on, and the canvas lying on the floor. Crouching down, I pick it up and look it over.
It’s magnificent.
