He’s lucky I only dislocated his jaw and both shoulders.
“I’m dyiiiiiiiiing.” Winona slumps her shoulders, then dramatically swoons over the cream and white granite kitchen island, instantly reminding me of all the times I’ve imagined feasting on her tight cunt right there.
“Well, come on. I can’t have you dying on me.” A flush of heat rushes from my heart down into my dick.
God, she’s stunning. All soft curves and flesh I want to taste inch by glorious inch.
She beams, then skips ahead as I nod toward the family dining room I designed when I built this house. One of my many rules is that we eat dinner together. Only exceptions are if someone is sick or one of us is out of town, which has been rare for me the last few years.
I amended my rule about a year after I set it, to give her mother, Catrina, a free pass. Eating dinner with her every night became a nightmare. Both because by dinner, she’s half in the bag most of the time, and because the way she talks to Winona makes me rethink my never-hit-a-woman-in-anger rule.
Family dinner is something I didn’t have until my last foster home with the Madisons, and it taught me that sharing that time together over a meal without any other distractions was precious.
More precious now, with the girl that’s become my constant obsession with her crooked cut black hair and ass and tits that make me think of a thousand creative ways to fuck her plump, soft body parts.
She’s a Goddess straight from a masterpiece. I’ve never been a man who obsessed over pussy. Or women in general. I’m not a saint, that’s for fucking sure, but watching Winona grow up, my minuscule interest in any sort of romantic relationship or sexual outlet pretty much dried up like the Sahara.
She became the center of my world, the one I always put first, long before I had any thoughts of bending her over the counter and bare-backing her full of the cum that weighs down my balls no matter how many times I beat off for relief.
“Fucking Thursdays.” Catrina saunters into the room in that see-through outfit she saw some actress wearing to the Oscars, and I want to cover her up with a damn blanket. “I hate Golden Pagoda.”
She sneers and drops into the seat across from where Winona sits at my right hand.
“I ordered you fried rice, Mom.”
Winona steps over to the walnut Adrian Pearsall buffet, over which hangs the bright canvas covered with her hand and foot prints in brilliant bold colors. I let her help decorate the house when I built it, because I suck at anything aesthetic, especially art. So when she said she wanted to create some of the artwork herself, I had a truckload of canvases, paints, and brushes delivered, and turned one of the spare rooms into an art studio.
I think that creative outlet helped her work out some of her grief about Stan. The house is dotted with her work. Some are darker, some lighter, like the one that hangs in here. The corner of my mouth turns up, remembering the day I walked into the studio to find her covered in paint head-to-toe, her hand andfoot prints on that canvas in a fury of wild colors and brilliant creativity.
It’s one of my favorite pieces of art in the house.
She lifts the crystal stopper from the decanter of my 30-year-old Macallan, grabs a cut crystal rocks glass from the silver tray, and, holding it in her other hand, pours me a perfect two-finger neat scotch, a little forced smile on her face that makes my heart clench.
“I’m off fried rice.” Catrina flaps her hand in a dismissive wave, holding her phone in front of her face, even though she knows I have a strict no phones at dinner rule. But enforcing that with my best friend’s widow is not the same as enforcing the rules with the girl who looks to me as her father. “I don’t want to bloat. I have a newfriend.” She wobbles her phone out with a flashy, overly whitened smile, and I watch as Winona’s own smile fades. “Which brings me to my next question.”
“You didn’t ask a first question,” Winona points out, and I beam with pride, raising an eyebrow as she sets my drink down to the right of my dinner plate.
She’s done so perfectly since I taught her a year ago.
Catrina twists her face. “Don’t be sassy, young lady.”
The accident that took Stan shook us all down to our very marrow. My focus was Winona, and overall, Catrina kept to her baseline ofpoor-meand her tendency for general self-absorption, which I somewhat blamed on her own mother’s obsession with entering her daughter in beauty pageants from the time she was old enough to walk.
But in the last couple years, her treatment of Winona has declined rapidly. She’s been on Hinge, Tinder, Match.com, and every other dating/hook-up app out there. Ironically, her growing interest in finding a new man coincided with her realization that she’d spent nearly all the money left in her trust from Stan’s will.
He left ninety-percent of it to Winona, with me as the executor, and Catrina’s had a cockroach up her ass about all that since we sat in the estate attorney’s office a week after Stan died and found out the details of his estate plans.
Winona takes her usual seat to my right, scooting her chair just a little closer to mine while she spoons out just the right amount of food onto my plate without spilling a drop, flicking her eyes to mine as I nod and mouth ‘Good girl’, which turns her round cheeks hot red.
“Don’t call her that,” Catrina snaps with an eye-roll, and I see that flicker of something other than self-absorption in her eyes. Something I hope like fuck Winona doesn’t catch. “Anddon’twait on him like he’s fucking king of the castle. Making her get your drink, make your plate—misogynistic asshole.” She scoffs, going back to her phone.
My girl’s shoulders slump. “He doesn’tmakeme do it. Iliketo do it. It shows respect, right, Daddy?”
Winona’s eyes meet mine, and I see a mixture of sadness and hope.
“That’s right. It pleases me that you want to do it. If I have to make you do something, that’s not respect, that’s intimidation.”
“Well, if you’d stop feeding her dumplings and every other god-damn thing she wants, that would showmea little respect. You want her to keep getting fat signs stuck on her back for the rest of her life?”
