It's been four days since I announced my bid for the U.S. Senate and my phone's been ringing non-stop. My inbox is so full, I could spend the next ten years answering every fucking message, and I still probably wouldn't get through it all.

And you know what? I couldn't be happier.

Needless to say, people are pretty fucking excited about my announcement.

And this evening, I'm celebrating at Cipriani's where the liquor choices are large, and the jumbo shrimp cocktails are even larger.

I walk over to the bar and motion to the bartender for a drink.

"What can I get for you sir?" And before I can even answer, a smile of recognition spreads across his face. "Wait a minute, you're the guy I saw on TV the other day—the 'Just Ask Trask' guy. You're Parker Trask, aren't you?"

"That's me," I say, reaching over to shake his hand. "It's nice to meet you."

"The pleasure's mine—now about that drink," he smiles. "What can I get for you?"

"I'll take an Old Fashioned," I reply.

"Sure thing—but I've gotta say, you're anything but Old Fashioned. The way you've whipped this city into shape, and brought it all together, is nothing short of a miracle. I've never seen that from any other mayor, and I've been in this city my whole life."

"I appreciate that," I reply. I think about segueing his accolades into my new bid for Senator, but then I decide that'll come across as shameless self-promotion, so I hold back and simply keep it at a thank you and nod my head.

I watch as he makes my drink—muddling the sugar and bitters, pouring the whiskey, and topping it with a twist of orange and a cherry. The ritual of it all is somehow comforting. He slides it over to me.

"Perfection," I say, and he seems pleased.

I reach down to grab the glass and before I can bring it to my lips, a woman catches my eyes. She grabs the empty seat next to me, and casually looks at the bar's menu.

I'm trying not to stare, but fuck, this is some woman.

Did I just say that my drink was perfection? Because I was clearly wrong. This woman sitting next to me is perfection incarnate.

I look around, hardly believing that she could be sitting here, alone. There's probably a boyfriend—or husband—about to walk up any minute. I'm bracing myself for the disappointment. I'm expecting it.

When I steal another look at her face, I notice that she seems familiar somehow.

Do I know her from somewhere? I'm wracking my brain for an answer when she speaks up.

"Can I really ask you anything, Trask?" she says, a smile forming on her lips.

Wait … that smile. Now I know why she looks so familiar. She looks so much like her mother.

"Amy?" I ask.

"I was wondering when you'd recognize me," she laughs.

"You look—"

She cuts me off. "Older?"

"You look good," I say.

"I'm not the frizzy-haired, braces-wearing 18-year-old kid you remember, right?" she continues, laughing.

If I'm honest, she's the opposite of that description in every possible way. Fuck, the woman sitting next to me is stunning. A halo of blonde hair frames her face. She's wearing a form-fitting, but classy black dress that shows off her every curve. She has an ass to die for; I'll tell you that much. I can picture myself squeezing it, a full cheek in each fist.

What?

Don’t look at me like that. Sure, she’s my stepdaughter. But that fucking dress. It’s wrapped to her body like wet tissue paper.

Its almost impossible to not be able to tell what she looks like fucking naked.

No, she's definitely not a kid anymore. I can't help but gaze at her perfect, round tits, and the way that they seem to be popping out of her dress—almost fighting with the fabric—and she catches me in the act of staring.

"I'm up here," she smiles.

I quickly look up, and act as if I don't know what she's talking about.

"Jesus," I say. "I just can't believe how grown up you are."

It's as if the surrounding people—the noise, the commotion, the bar, and everything has melted away and the only thing I can see and hear is Amy.

She smiles and seems to recognize the magnetic hold she has on me right now. She now has a drink in her left hand, and as she brings it to her lips, I quickly scan her finger for a ring, trying not to be too obvious about it. I don't see one.

"No husband?" I ask.

"I haven't found anyone worth marrying," she grins.

"That's a shame," I say.

"And why's that?" she asks, one eyebrow arching. "Maybe I don't want to be married."

"With your," and I hesitate, trying to find just the right word, "assets … you'd make any man happy, and lucky."

She doesn't reply, and instead simply smiles, and goes back to her drink. I notice her legs are angled toward me now, and she seems to have scooted in a little closer. I take it as a sign to try and dish out the charm.

"Want to make a bet with me?" I ask.

"Depends," she smiles, hesitating ever so slightly. And I swear she opens her legs a little.

Am I just imagining that?

It takes everything in me to not reach over and rest my hand on that butter-smooth crevice between her legs.

I hand her the cherry from my drink. "You know what they say about a woman who can tie a cherry stem into a knot without using her hands, right?"

She shakes her head no, so I continue. "Well, it means," and I lean into her ear and whisper it for emphasis, "that she's a phenomenal kisser."

"Is that so?" she purrs, a wide smile lighting up her face.

"But I bet you can't pull it off," I say, teasingly.

"That little stem?" she laughs, looking at the cherry pinched between my fingers.

"That little stem," I confirm, and smile. "And I'm gonna bet you can't do it. But if you prove me wrong, I'll owe you an entire dinner."

She seems to perk up at the challenge. She's competitive. I like that in a woman.

"Do I get to choose the place?" she asks.

"Of course. Anywhere," I confirm.

"Considering what I do for a living," she smiles, "challenge accepted."

"Wait, what does your job have to do with tying a cherry stem with your mouth?"

Now I'm really fucking curious. I can't possibly imagine the connection.

"Let's just say I'm a sex worker of sorts."

Wait, what did she just say? I nearly choke on my drink. Instead, I cough into my napkin.

"Sex worker?" I ask. "You're joking, right?"

"Is that so hard to believe? Especially from a man like you, Mr. Parker 'Pleasure' Trask—the man who was caught with his pants down, with three different women at once?"

"Okay, okay," I shrug. "I get it—you're right. So, what exactly do you do?"

"I basically run my own online porn presence with an online peep show," she smiles. "Our jobs are more alike than you think," she continues, when I don't respond right away.

"I'm not sure about that," I say, shaking my head. I really don't see the connection.

"It's true. We both know how to work an audience," she purrs, and now she's so close that I feel her knee pressing against my thigh and it sends an electric current up and down my body.

"Maybe," I smile, not totally convinced, but not wanting to say she's wrong either.

"I want to help you with your campaign," she continues, in all seriousness.

"I don't know… I don't think that's a good idea," I say. "I've already given the media enough to talk about lately."

She laughs, and then places her delicate hand on my thigh. I think about how close she is to my 12 inches of man meat, and I grow hard. "Since when did you care about what other people think?" she purrs.

Fuck. She does have a point.

"Touché," I smile.

I watch as she grabs the cherry from my hand. The color seems to mirror her nail polish, and she brings it to her mouth, slowly. Grinning, she places it between her lips and pops it from the stem. I watch as she licks it and rolls it across her tongue before chewing it.

Fuck. My cock is throbbing.

Then, she pinches the stem between her white teeth. Her teeth are so white and straight they remind me of a picket fence.

"The moment of truth," she purrs, and gives me a seductive wink.

There's a fucking pulse in my pants now, and I watch as her plump, moist lips take turns parting, closing, and wiggling in cycles.

Then her mouth stops moving and she shrugs her shoulders.

I try to read the meaning behind her eyes.

She reaches into her mouth and pulls out the stem.

"Never bet against me," she grins. "It looks like you now owe me dinner."

I look down.

There, lying on top of the bar, is a cherry stem fastened into a perfect knot.

"Have your people call my people," she says to me as she turns to leave, swaying her hips and giving me a view of her ass.

My eyes meet hers as she gives me a lascivious smile and licks her lips.

"See you around, Daddy."