By Nikki Wild and Kat Jackson
Copyright 2015 Nikki Wild
All Rights Reserved
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–Nikki Wild
“I can’t do this,” I told her. “I can’t pretend like last night never happened. I need you, Madison, and not in the way that a brother needs his stepsister.”
I began lifting up the hem, revealing the creamy white tops of her thighs inch by inch until finally, I caught a glimpse of her underwear. I pulled my cock out and nestled it against her crotch. I felt my balls seize and I snarled in her ear. “I could blow my load right here, Maddy. I could soak these panties before dinner, and your mother and my father wouldn’t know a thing. You’d spend the whole night with my cum staining your panties... That’s what you do to me. You make me want to do the nastiest fucking things to you.”
Maddy shivered and looked up at me with hooded eyes. “Preston… Jesus, we can’t. What we did last night was wrong. I wanted it… We wanted it… But you know it can’t happen again.”
I pulled her panties open, letting the tip of my dick violate the space between them and her sweet, soaking wet lips. I thrust, overwhelmed by the sensation of being so near to her, of feeling my bulging head slip around in her honeyed nectar. “It has to,” I whispered. “Every time I look at you, all I want to do is get inside you again.”
I was so close. But Madison gently, yet firmly took me by the wrist. I could see lust in her eyes, but there was something else too. Maybe it was self-restraint…
“We can’t,” she repeated, and this time there was no “maybe” in her tone. I withdrew and she let her fingers brush mine. “I’m sorry, Preston, but think of what could happen if we got caught…”
I nodded. As frustrated as I was, she made sense. But dammit, I didn’t want her to make sense! All I wanted was to throw caution to the wind and bury myself in my darling little stepsister.
She fixed her skirt and helped tuck my cock back inside my pants, her hand lingering on its straining girth longer than she needed to.
“Let’s hope there’s wine tonight,” I said as her fingertips left me, her graceful body moving around the car and sliding into the passenger seat.
“I think I’m going to need it,” Maddy replied, trying to avoid my gaze as I sat down beside her. We didn’t say another word as her hand found its way to my thigh, giving me a reassuring squeeze.
A drink was definitely going to be required. Maybe a little buzz would help me forget, but as we drove, all I could do was try to ignore the heat radiating from her fingertips. My mind drifted, traveling back to the day she ran into me on the street with those big beautiful tears in her eyes… So perfect… So broken…
One month earlier…
“Madison, lunch was over two minutes ago.”
I looked up from microwavable meal. It was a small plastic bowl of steamed rice and veggies, but the shitty microwave in the break room had only heated things up on one side, leaving me with broccoli stalks with freezer burn still clinging to them.
My gaze fixed on Miguel Herrera, the general manager of the small rental company I worked for. He reminded me of a man who had once done greater things, but had since been exiled to the dredges of monotony that corporate life entailed. Maybe he’d been military, or maybe he’d once been a little higher up the food chain where commands weren’t questioned and his iron fist ruled all. Either way, it was painfully clear that a man like Miguel was never meant for a company like ExecuSpace.
ExecuSpace itself was an interesting animal. Instead of renting tangible things like cars, homes, or office buildings, they rented out virtual office space. I sat behind a desk answering a multi-line phone system where each line represented a different suite supposedly housed in the six-story building I worked in. A prompt would pop up on my computer with each call, reminding me to answer for “Lindsey’s Lawn Service” or “Jack Vogler, Esquire.” Then I’d place the caller on hold and transfer them to the client’s voice mailbox, their cell phone, or even their home phone where they really worked.
Basically, ExecuSpace rented nothing at all—nothing but the illusion that their clients were more important than they really were. It was brilliantly deceptive, and it worked like a charm.
That meant the phones were busy. That meant that sometimes I didn’t get to take a lunch break, and when I did, running sixty seconds past the mark would earn me a visit from Miguel’s dark, scowling face.
“You left your desk at half past noon, didn’t you?” he asked, raising one of his charcoal eyebrows. I shuffled the food in her bowl and nodded, taking another bite.
“I did, but I got stopped in the hall by Mr. Franklin, who wanted me to run back to my desk and put a parcel into the outgoing mail. Then when I got back there, Lacy got a phone call from her ex and ran outside to take it, so I had to wait for her to get back before I could leave again. After that, Ms. Harris asked for a physical list of the calls she’d received today, even though they’re all logged on her voicemail, and ten minutes later I finally got to heat up my lunch and sit down here.
“So,” I continued, glancing up at the clock over my shoulder, “I’m not two minutes late. I’m actually just sitting down to eat, so I’ve got about twenty-five minutes left.”
Normally I wouldn’t have spoken to Miguel—or anyone at ExecuSpace—that way. That was because I desperately needed this job, or I’d be completely screwed in the way of keeping a roof over my head. That meant putting up with grueling twelve- to fourteen-hour shifts, even if I had to clock out at five p.m. like everybody else, enduring the abuse of my colleagues and the incompetence of my supposed assistant, and above all else, not stepping away from my desk unless I needed to use the restroom or had some other emergency.
But today was different. Today, after four long, arduous years without so much as a pay bump or a pat on the back, I was not in the mood.
I had bills to pay, and they were mounting quickly. I’d been hired in at a measly ten dollars an hour and that hadn’t changed, even though my responsibilities had. I was no longer the receptionist answering the phones, opening mail, and sending off a few e-mails every day—not that my job had ever only entailed that, despite what they’d told me during my interview. I was the personal assistant to pretty much everyone on the floor, as well as the office manager for when nobody else wanted to deal with the bullshit that sauntered up to the front desk every day. I could—and had—run the entire operation by myself on many occasions. So why was I still being treated and paid like Lacy, the girl with no education, no computer skills, no ambition, and no desire to be here?
Lacy also happened to be my “assistant,” but she was an awful lot like my burden. She rarely lifted a finger to answer a call before I got to it and yet she still had her job and half the office tripping over themselves to take care of things for her. That usually involved passing her work off to me while she skipped out on some obscure “errand” or spent an hour in Miguel’s office with the door shut. She was young and pretty and she knew it, and I supposed that was what got a woman ahead in this place more than anything else.
Miguel appraised me, putting his hands on his waist in a way that spread apart his blazer to reveal his paunchy belly. I made sure to tightly cinch my legs together under the table, though the violet pencil skirt I was wearing hugged my thighs enough that I was sure he could use his imagination as to what was between them. I didn’t want him to do that, of course, but there was no stopping Miguel Herrera when he decided he wanted something.
When his gaze finally dragged back up to meet mine, I realized what he wanted was for me to toss away my lunch and go back to my desk. I held his stare, trying not to let my mouth twitch or my knee shake, trying not even to blink. I didn?
??t want to make any move that might be perceived as a sign of weakness, because today, after a shitty annual review and yet another thirteen-hour shift the day before, I was taking my goddamn lunch break.
Eight hours. That’s what I get paid for, I reminded myself, a low heat rising in the pit of my empty stomach. Lunch is supposed to be an hour. Lacy gets an hour. So do Ross and Ben. Miguel himself takes as long as he likes. I’m entitled to sit and eat once a day, thank you.
“Okay. You just sit there, then, while there’s a crisis up front,” Miguel growled, waving a hand dismissively in my direction. He looked utterly disgusted with me. “I’m sure the rest of us can manage your job for you.”