I’m not proud, just honest.
Catrina can get her shit from the grocery store for all I care. I told Winona to keep her own products in a select few of the ten bathrooms in the house we share, and hope like fuck Catrina’s tendency to be self-absorbed keeps her from noticing that not all period products in this house are created equal.
“I’m coming in, baby. The potstickers are still hot, and the dumpling soup smells like ass in here, but what my girl wants, my girl gets. Is the table set?”
“Yes, for anhour!” She sneers, and my chest cinches.
“Don’t be a brat. I’ll be in in thirty seconds, can you wait that long?”
She lets out a loud groan. “I guess I have to.”
“Good girl. Now, hang up and get my drink ready. We’ll eat right out of the containers to save time.”
“Bye, Daddy.” She hangs up after adding a kiss to the screen, and cum flows freely into my jeans as myballs draw up.
I take a deep breath. This evening is going to be like all the others.
The best and worst time of the fucking day.
Chapter Two
Reuben
As soon as I cross the threshold of the back door carrying her favorite Thursday meal from The Golden Pagoda take-out, a punch of shame hits me in the gut. To Winona, I’m the guy who has been her second father since she was 12. I never intended to take on a kid. In fact, I kind of thought I’d be the world’s worst father, but life doesn’t always work out the way you expect.
When your own parents give you up, and you end up shunted around from foster home to foster home, it changes you. It’s something I wouldn’t wish on any child in the world, but when it’s someone I care about, it hits different.
My best friend Stan knew how I felt about that. It’s why he made sure to ask me in his will if I’d take on his daughter even with her mother still in the picture. He knewshe’d need me, and that duty is the single most important thing in my life.
I’m pretty sure Winona sees me as a giant teddy bear. Emphasis on giant, unless you are actually a bear, then maybe being six foot seven and two-seventy doesn’t make you stand out.
But what she doesn’t see is the other side of the man who gives her whatever she wants with the flash of a smile, the pout of a bottom lip, or a simple fucking ask.
The company her father and I started when we turned eighteen is not for the faint of heart. We both arrived at the Madison house at fourteen, having both been through the foster system for enough years that we were obnoxious, hell-bent on pushing away anyone and everyone, and one misdemeanor away from juvie.
But Burt Madison wasn’t the typical foster father. He was quiet, but fair. He put hammers in our hands and taught us how to build things. How to take out all that pent-up anger in a way that no one else had. We gave him a hard run for his money, but he never wavered. He just kept teaching us and showing us we were worth something until we started to believe it ourselves.
That led to starting our own handyman business when we were both seventeen and barely able to graduate high school. From there, we got our builder’s licenses, got jobs working for a big cement contractor, learned that business, and grew into what I have today.
But it’s cut-throat, and you don’t grow in those trades by being a cinnamon roll. I’ve burned down my share of competitors’ buildings and made house calls with a directmessage about just how far I will go to win a bid or chase down the competition.
But using my size and physical prowess to nearly decapitate a classmate of Winona’s a month ago may have been going a little too far. She doesn’t know what happened, and he’s not talking. As a result, he’s still alive, albeit attending another school two states away.
All she knows is that the asshole who thought it would be funny to tape a sign on her back that said ‘Caution: Wide Load’ is no longer around.
When I picked her up from school that day, it took me two seconds to know she’d been crying. I didn’t press her for too much, just enough to give me the basics, then I did some digging on my own and found not only the asshole that made the sign, but also the recording of her when she finally figured out why her classmates were laughing at her walking down the hall.
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 exceptionsare 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.
