Chapter 11

Owen

Watching Mira in my kitchen is killing me. Fucking killing me.

I’ll just be frank: a lot of women have passed through my kitchen before—hair a disaster, makeup smeared into Hamburgular masks, clothes a complete mess.

Sometimes they even look like completely different people, rendering me speechless when I see their half-awake, hangover-stricken bodies grotesquely twitch into the kitchen.

But Mira, she’s different. Only she can wake up in the morning and look like a picture of perfection.

Honestly, it’s so surreal, it’s completely unfair.

She leans against the kitchen counter while clutching her coffee mug, the shape of her body curving perfectly in the morning light. If she was anyone else, I’d be practically shoving her into an Uber by now.

But of course, the one time I find a woman who makes me want to devour every inch of her just so happens to be my step-niece. She’ll completely ruin my reputation if anyone finds out I stuck my dick in her mouth once, despite me not knowing beforehand.

Mira finishes her coffee and starts strapping on her stilettos.

“Guess I better head out.” Her voice is upbeat yet sad, like she’s still trying to convince herself that she’s okay with leaving.

She grabs her clutch and starts checking her hair in the reflection of the microwave door. Her dress looks so much looser than I remember. Her tits keep bouncing around in her top as she tugs up her dress, the shiny fabric barely covering her.

Of course, my naughty girl wouldn’t wear a bra.

She puts her hair up into a bun and turns and looks at me, as if she’s looking to be inspected.

She throws her arms over her chest suddenly, clutching her arms tightly.

“I can’t go out like this, can I?”

Hmm, let’s see. My hot step-niece stumbling out of my penthouse with her tits practically falling out of her dress? Honestly, even if I weren’t famous, it’s not a good look for a burgeoning young CEO—or anyone for that matter.

“Not unless you want to go the Kim Kardashian route,” I say as I peer out the window.

Ugh, the paparazzi are like roaches. Disgusting roaches who probably like to jerk off to all the pictures they take of me and hot young girls that stumble out of my penthouse so early in the morning

I won’t let those vermin treat Mira like that.

“What am I going to do?” She pouts against the counter, leaning forward so that I get a peek down her dress. Was that intentional?

“I have an idea.” I smirk at her. “I can give you a change of clothes so that you don’t stumble out of here looking like some,” I shrug, “slut.”

“Slut?” She crosses her arms in fake anger. “I don’t like that word.”

“Why’s that?” I take a sip of my coffee, never taking my eyes off her. I love watching her get pretend-mad.

“Because if there’s a slut in this room, it’s definitely you, Mr. Cakeilingus.”

I grasp my chest, pretending to be shock-offended, then I turn to her and smile. “You’re very clever, Miss Mira.”

She shrugs. “I guess it runs in the family. Our family.”

I feel a weird twitch go up my spine when she says this. I look at her face and see a flick of excitement. I shrug, shaking the whole moment off.

“Let me see if I have something for you to wear.”

I head to my bedroom and open my massive walk-in closet. My shirts are organized by designer, color, cut, and style, each one shrink-wrapped by the cleaners. It keeps them fresh. I grab one of my cheaper Hugo Boss shirts and head back to the kitchen.

I toss her the shirt and laugh as she barely catches it. The shirt flops around in her hands, back and forth, before she gets a firm grip on the plastic.

“Like aiming things at my face, huh?”

I grin deviously. “That’s an understatement.”

She turns the shirt around in her hands like it’s something foreign and odd.

“Is this shirt brand new?” she asks. “You just keep a bunch of brand new shirts stockpiled in your closet, Batman?”

“Maybe,” I smirk, letting her believe the fantasy.

She jumps off the counter she was sitting on, and, right there in the middle of the kitchen, takes off her dress. Her tits bounce all wild and free, as if they were just waiting to escape.

Her boldness surprises me, though it shouldn’t be since she almost stripped for me last night. Sure, she might be a little young, but this is no girl. No fucking way.

She squeezes out of her dress, swaying her hips from side to side as it slides down. Once the dress is on the floor, she kicks it with one foot, sending the dress sliding across the floor.

I grab the kitchen counter, bracing myself. Is she playing games with me? Because she really shouldn’t if she knows what she’s doing to me right now.

You have no idea how hard I just want to pounce on every inch of her. How badly I just want to bury my face into her tits until I fucking smother myself and die.

As my eyes go from the dress—now nothing but a piece of crumbled cloth—back to her, I see her in all her perfection.

Well, sort of.

She turns her back towards me as she unbuttons the dress shirt I gave her. As I stare daggers into her back, my eyes traveling down to see her perfect ass, she turns around and eyes me over her shoulder.

She giggles. Giggles!

“Don’t look!”

Is she fucking kidding me?

My cock is throbbing so hard, I feel like it’s going to burst through my pants and go soaring through the air. And now she’s telling me not to look?

I give her a pleading look. Who knows how pathetic I probably look right now?

“No!” She waves her little finger at me as if she’s scolding a little boy. “I’m changing. Be a gentleman, and turn around, please.”

I throw my hands up, surrendering, and turn around. As I stare at the wall, I can see her figure through the reflection in the microwave door. I see her body all transparent—but clearly visible. All her curves, her perky tits and ass.

I grip the counter—again—not knowing how much more I can take.

Without waiting for her permission, I turn around and see her buttoning up the shirt. It’s oversized on her and makes her look fucking hot. She actually looks hotter in my shirt than she did in that loose-fitting dress.

“You should wear my clothes more often.”

She smiles and continues buttoning up her shirt. “I told you not to look.”

I shrug. “I guess I couldn’t help myself.”

“Well that’s not very gentlemanly of you, is it?”

I walk up to her and place my hand on her face, admiring her. My fingertips brush against her mouth as she seductively licks my thumb. “I never said I was a gentleman.”

I grab her around the waist and pull her close, my pulsing cock rubbing up against her, and I know she can feel all twelve inches of me.

She smells like a stale mixture of fruity perfume and champagne. It’s that salty aroma you smell in the morning, and it lingers and seeps into your clothes like smoke. I inhale her, rubbing my face along her hair. She’s delicious—and now, I want a taste.

She has her palms raised and placed on my shoulders, as if she’s trying to push me away. Although if she’s trying to, she’s doing a shitty job of it.

I can feel her panting as she grips my shoulders, bunching my shirt into her hands.

I reach down and feel a slight wetness outside my pants. Fuck, I’m seriously about to explode. I don’t know if I can hold it any longer.

Suddenly, Mira pushes against me, weaseling out of my grip.

“I better go,” she stutters as she awkwardly maneuvers around me. I look up at her, frozen with shock with the worst case of blue balls.

“Yeah, sure.” I try to play it off as if I don’t care, although I clearly do. All she has to do is look down at my still-hard dick to see how badly I want to continue.

I hand her one of my blazers for her to wear over her shirt. She puts it on and straps on her stilettos. I’m surprised how put together the whole outfit looks, as if she really did come here already in those clothes and not that tit-show of a dress.

She grabs her clutch as she stands in front of me. I stare through her clothes, thinking of how exposed she was in the kitchen just moments before.

I know we both made a promise to each other, but how the hell are we supposed to stay loyal to that when we clearly want to fuck each other’s brains out? There were lots of girls at that wedding; I didn’t have to choose her.

And yet why is it that she’s all that I want?

Fuck me.

We both walk to the front door and brace ourselves. What’s waiting on the other side is a medley of bullshit I’m not sure either of us are ready for.