When he’s done with it, he reaches for my pussy, brushing two fingers against my folds and taking into his hand the cum I still have there; then, he takes his fingers to my mouth and presses them over my lips, thick drops of cum going down from his fingertips into my lips. I open my mouth and let him slide his long fingers in, sucking them dry. Slowly, he takes them out of my mouth, a delighted smile on his lips.
“You’re not done yet…”
“Who said I was?” Almost growling, he places his hands on my shoulders and pushes me down onto the floor; he’s on me before I even know what he’s doing, his mouth hungrily pressed against my pussy. He devours me again, making sure that every single drop of cum in my body goes into his mouth.
When he takes his mouth off of my pussy, I’m grinning as if I were a young girl again. I sit up on the floor, my heart still racing, and look up at Lance..
“This was just...” he starts, the expression of ecstasy on his face somehow making him look even more handsome… and younger. I know exactly what he means, so I just nod, still breathing hard. His lips are still glistening from all of the cum he took in, a perfect memento of what we’ve just done. This was perfect, and wrong. Very, very wrong.
Oh, crap, what am I doing with someone so young? Someone who’s my stepson?
Well, I’ll tell you what I’m doing, hun. I’m living. The way I want to.
For the first time since I’ve been married, I’m doing something that makes me happy.
79
Lance
“Let me get another one, Mike,” I say to the bartender, holding out my pint glass and taking the final sip of the beer.
Fuck, I don't even know if the guy’s name is Mike still. I mean, the bartender behind the counter when I came in this afternoon was called Mike, but I can’t remember what he looks like now. I’ve been drinking pretty heavily, if you can’t fucking tell.
It’s now night, around 8 pm, and I’ve been here a few hours at the Village Pourhouse—a giant sports bar off union Square. It gets a good NYU crowd, but more than that, the drinks are reasonably priced and people leave you alone if you just want to get blasted, watch television, and be by yourself.
And right now, the only two things I want in this fucking world are to drink to forget and be by myself.
Yeah, okay, I know this isn’t the best thing to be doing in the world. The media catches me getting wasted in a bar, they’re going to have a fucking field day.
But I fucking need this. I don’t care what the fuck is going on.
I mean, you would be doing a lot worse if you were in my shoes, okay. Don’t even try to fucking tell me that you would be all calm and collected after you ended up fucking the hottest girl you’d ever fucking met in the fitting room of a fucking Saks Fifth Avenue.
And not just any woman off the street.
No, that would make things too easy. Then it would just be sex—and hey, you know me, I’m cool with having just sex, remember?
No, this is going too fucking far.
This time I’ve crossed a line that I don’t think I can come back from.
This is my fucking stepmom we’re talking about here. Just recently married to my stepdad—the Mayor of New York City.
It’s not that I’m worried that I’m in trouble or anything. I mean, I’m not even fucking related to my dad, so there’s no way I’m related to her.
But the optics of this situation. She’s my dad’s wife. I have never, ever, ever had sex with a woman who has been in a relationship. I’ve never cheated on any woman I’ve been with and I’ve always drawn the line on sleeping with women who were in relationships.
I mean, look at me. This body gets me enough girls to fuck. I’m able to pick and fucking choose and till now I’ve always picked to not be a fucking home wrecker.
Until today. Until the hottest fucking woman on the face of the planet threw herself at me with the power of a fucking tornado. I didn’t even have any free fucking will in this situation. It was almost like I was just there for the ride.
But afterwards, when my feet came back down to earth, I began to realize what I was doing. And now I get that what we did this afternoon—we can never do it again.
You got that right. You heard me. Look at my face. I’m fucking serious. I am never going to lay a hand on Jocelyn Anders. Ever again.
I slap my hand down on the bar, and immediately draw the looks of the bartender. But fuck it. I’m getting out of my seat and getting out of the bar, anyways.
It’s close to 9 pm by the time I get off the uptown 6 and walk the one block from the train to my dad’s townhouse. Most Mayors of New York City move into Gracie Mansion, the dwelling reserved for the person who wins the office. But my dad, Michael Anders, is different. First off, his townhouse that he owns on his own is much larger than Gracie Mansion. So it never made any sense for him to move. Secondly, the amount of money he makes on interest in one month from his inherited holdings is more than the annual salary of the position—so he basically only accepted $1 as a token salary four years ago.