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  And Annie nodded now, sobbing, breasts open and exposed, nipples pink and jutting hard with arousal, pussy gushing onto my hand.

  “I know Daddy,” she sobbed. “I know now, I didn’t know before.”

  And I nodded with satisfaction. My little girl had learned her lesson and it wouldn’t happen again. Because if it did, there would only be more pain, more stinging slaps, more everything on her cunt. And she raised her eyes to me then, those brown pools still filled with tears, lashes heavy, soft mouth parted slightly.

  “Pinch my clit, Daddy?” she breathed, holding perfectly still as I massaged her. “Pretty please? It’ll make me feel better.”

  And I grunted in satisfaction. My girl loved this shit, after the clit slapping now she wanted it pinched like a cunt slut, and it was fucking awesome. We were gonna have so much fun, and I did her one better. With two big fingers, I pinched her clit while dropping my head to suckle at a big breast, and the girl moaned throatily then, hands stroking through my hair, all thoughts of dinner gone. And who the fuck cared? It was fucking heaven being with this girl. I was in fucking heaven, playing with the brunette, teasing her, being teased in return, sampling the goods, and all of it interspersed with talk. And the most incredible part? Against all odds, I hadn’t taken Annie’s virginity yet, hadn’t pushed up into that delectable body, hadn’t torn through her hymen … but I would.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Annie

  “Mr. Fire, I don’t swim,” I breathed.

  We were standing in front of the locker rooms, about to go our separate ways, him into the men’s, me in the women’s. I clutched my bag nervously, trying to look poised and confident. But the truth was I really don’t swim. I haven’t gotten into the water since seventh grade PE, when we had mandatory CPR training and wore those terrible red swimsuits. It’d been awful, the material was rubbery and tight, and nowhere near enough to hide my changing body.

  “Is that Annie?” hissed one girl, softly but loud enough for me to hear. I blushed bright red, my skin going from white to deep pink, almost matching the swimsuit itself.

  “Hell yeah,” grunted one boy, making an obscene motion with his hand while gyrating his hips. “Hubba hubba, tubba chubba.”

  And I stood, trembling, trying not to look their way, trying to pretend like I hadn’t heard although my ears flamed. Because this swimsuit was ridiculous. They were sized for ordinary people, but I was no ordinary girl. In the last year, I’d bust out from skinny twig to full-figured woman, and my girls were absolutely huge, leaking out above and to the sides, huge swaths of white flesh visible.

  Not only that, but the legs were cut obscenely high and you could almost see my pussy, the round cheeks of my ass. Why didn’t it look like this on other girls? Oh right. Because I had thirty pounds on them, all of it boob and ass flesh.

  And it only got worse during PE. I’d had to put my mouth down on Jerry Brown’s mouth to simulate CPR, and it’d been bad enough, having to make mouth to mouth contact with this guy. But even worse were my tits. They were so huge that they hung down like watermelons, pressed on his chest as I tried CPR on the scrawny boy.

  “Ooh hee hee!” he cackled once I came up for air. “Haw haw!”

  And I let out a gasp then because the disgusting pimple-faced adolescent had reached over and grabbed a melon in his hands, squeezing down hard.

  “Hey stop!” I shrieked, mouth open, eyes aghast. “Stop stop!”

  But his hand had already moved away, and Miss Ellis, our instructor, looked over suspiciously.

  “Something going on? You two learning the basics?” she grunted. I swear, Jerry could have stuck a finger in my cunt, and Miss Ellis would be oblivious. So I just swallowed and made the best of it.

  “Yeah, we’re doing fine,” I muttered, looking down and away, my full body feeling like it was going up in flames.

  “We’re fine, just fine,” parroted Jerry, smirking like the douche he was. And so it was another forty-five minutes of pure torture in my swimsuit, lots of disgusting handsie with a teen boy, his acne up close, my body behaving in all sorts of embarrassing ways, the swimsuit no match for my poundage. And after we were done, I swore never again. Never, ever, would I be caught in a swimsuit again, I’d rather wear a burqa, the humiliation was so fresh and raw.

  But here I was with Andrew, dawdling in front of the locker room, shuffling my feet like a little girl.

  “Um, I don’t really swim,” I said truthfully. “Never learned.”

  The big man’s brows shot up.

  “Never? They don’t teach you this stuff in high school anymore, it’s not part of the core curriculum? Well shit, things aren’t like when I was in school, you couldn’t graduate without swimming two laps, there and back.”

  And I blushed again.

  “But that was a long time ago, and high school for me was just last year.”

  Andrew quirked a brow at me, a smile playing on his lips.

  “Good to know you think I’m an old man,” he chuckled deeply. “I’m forty-five honey, not some septuagenarian.”

  And I flushed. Because it didn’t matter that he was twenty-five years older than me, hell, Andrew was better looking than any man I’d ever seen of any age. And right now, in his t-shirt and board shorts, he looked positively delectable, the shirt clinging to his biceps, the broad chest strong and deep, his legs long and thick, standing assertively in the hall.

  “It’s not that,” I began quickly. “It’s just that …” my voice trailed.

  “Just what?” he prompted gently, blue eyes amused. “Afraid of getting water up your nose? Of opening your eyes under the water?”

  “No,” I shook my head furiously. “Afraid my suit’s gonna fall off. Mr. Fire, you have to understand,” I said quickly. “There’s never been a swimsuit that fit me. Ever since I changed,” I stammered, “there’s just too much of me. They don’t make swimsuits my size.”

  And Andrew tilted his head back then, laughing, showing off those gleaming white teeth, the dimple in one cheek.

  “Honey, where we’re going, swimsuits are optional,” he said with a sly grin.

  That made me jump back. Optional? What the fuck? Was this some kind of nude beach?

  And a gleam sparked in his eye.

  “Just try it baby,” he said, leaning over and slapping my butt gently. “The swimsuits you have are tailor made, they sewed these things from scratch according to your dimensions, so I’m sure it’s gonna be fine,” he reassured me. “Last one into the pool is a rotten egg,” and with two big strides, he was gone, disappeared into the men’s locker room, leaving me alone outside, still biting my lip, unsure.

  But what the hell. The past couple days with him have been incredible. We’ve talked, he’s petted me, stroked me, felt me all over, but one big thing is missing. That’s right. Mr. Fire hasn’t taken my virginity yet, and I can’t understand why. He bought and paid for it, he’s the rightful owner, it’s been handed over with plenty of paperwork to boot. No one’s contesting his right to take me, least of all me.

  But the big man’s held back for some reason or other, instead playing with me, having fun, helping me relax. It’s almost like we’re dating … almost. Because don’t people who are dating sleep together? Don’t they have dinner, watch a movie, but also enjoy each other in bed, get naked and get horny? For us, that hadn’t happened yet. Instead, each night he deposits me at my chambers, giving me a sweet kiss, a tweak on a nipple, a brush against my cunt with a square palm, and then leaves, only to come back to the next morning.

  So I’m not sure what to think. On the one hand, I appreciate it. On the one hand, I feel so much more relaxed, much more at ease, just because I know him better. We’ve spent seventy-two hours with each other now, and had plenty of time to chit chat about our pasts, about what we want.

  “So Mr. Fire,” I asked one day, curiously, lounging besides him in the Club library. I had the latest James Patterson in my lap, and Andrew was looking through some illustrated
Bibles. It was a weird choice and I had to ask. “Is there a reason why you’re reading the Bible? I mean, are you really religious?”

  And Andrew shot me a look, those blue eyes teasing but at the same time, serious.

  “The Bible is a best-seller,” he said mildly. “Every year, year after year, more copies of the Bible are sold than any Harry Potter, any Twilight, any James Patterson,” he said, nodding at the book in my lap. “That’s an incredible statistic if you think about it. A book that was written two thousand years ago, in an ancient form of Hebrew, likely on parchment, is a best seller still today. And no one even knows who wrote it for sure. Likely a coterie of religious leaders, perhaps the disciples of Jesus, no one knows.”

  And I bit my lip. I took a religious studies class in college and knew a bit about the history of Christianity.

  “It is interesting,” I agreed, nodding. “But do you have a particular interest in the Bible? What’s it to you?”

  And Mr. Fire’s face grew shuttered for a moment.

  “When you’re a billionaire, you realize that everything is an investment opportunity,” he said, voice even. “And who wouldn’t’ want to invest in a bestseller? Not just a bestseller, but one that will always be a bestseller, one that is guaranteed to sell more copies each year, this time to developing countries with burgeoning populations, Uganda, Angola, countries in Latin America too. It’s an incredible opportunity.”

  And I gasped because it was like seeing the world through a completely different lens. The Bible has never been anything to me but a holy book, one that I obediently pulled out on weekends in the pews, holding it open in my lap as we recited verses or sang from the hymn book. Never in a million years had I thought to make money from it. Never in a million years had I thought there was financial opportunity to exploit.

  But Mr. Fire nodded once more, his fingers trailing over the tome in front of him.

  “Pope Francis has revitalized Catholicism, he’s a hero in many circles, entire populations of previously lapsed Catholics have returned to the fold, energized, looking to his leadership. So ever since his ascension, there’s been a bump in demand, and I’m here to capitalize on it,” he said mildly, looking at me again. “It’s how the world works, honey, how I make a living. Although,” and here, he let out a wry smile. “At this point, it’s not exactly work anymore. I have more than enough money, plenty to last me many lifetimes. For me, it’s the game now, not the cash.”

  I nodded, understanding a bit more of this man. But still, equating the Bible, a holy book, with money made my soul crumple a bit, although it shouldn’t have. This was a legitimate business opportunity, and Mr. Fire was selling Bibles. What was wrong with that? Nothing, absolutely nothing. But I pressed on.

  “But Andrew,” I said seriously this time, my form still in the chair, all pretense of reading the James Patterson thriller gone. “Is the Bible anything else to you? Anything other than a money-making machine?”

  And he shot me a sharp look then.

  “It’s many things to me,” he rumbled deeply, even though his face was expressionless. “Why do you ask?”

  And I took a deep breath. Because I wanted him to be spiritual. Even though he’d just admitted to making millions, if not billions, off the latest edition of the King James, I wanted the alpha male to show more than a knack for making money, to show that this book meant something to him, that he respected it, its history, its past, its present, even if he wasn’t religious himself.

  “Well, I guess I’m asking because I went to Catholic school,” I said quickly. “Not that I’m so religious or anything, but I grew up saying prayers, and I say prayers still sometimes,” I added, biting my lip. “So the Bible means something to me. I don’t mind if other people aren’t Christian, but I guess I just see the book as more than just a book. It’s a holy tome, something that’s still a source of wisdom to me this day, and so … I dunno, I guess the book just means a lot to me.”

  And Mr. Fire was silent for a moment, studying the volume before him, a big finger running lightly over the gilded pages, beautiful pictures of Mary and her son shown in relief, traced with leaves of gold.

  “This is beautiful, isn’t it?” he said more to himself than anyone. “This is a beautiful book.”

  And I nodded, because the volume he held in his hands had to be priceless. Normal bibles don’t come with color pictures, they’re not written in calligraphy with big, curly caps. This had to be a collector’s edition, a rare book that belonged in a library or museum, and somehow the Club had come to own it. But still, he hadn’t answered my question.

  “Mr. Fire,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I understand that what you have before you is a collector’s item, that the Club probably owns a dozen rare bibles, ones that should be in museums, preserved for the world to see. But do the words themselves mean anything to you? Does the word of God, any god, have a place in your life?”

  And the big man turned to me then, his fingers still on the page.

  “Is this the Inquisition?” he asked mildly, one black brow raised. “The word of God? Are you religious honey?”

  And I shook my head.

  “Not very, but it’s special to me all the same. I grew up with it, and I treasure many of my memories from Chapel, it was quiet, still, and I could hear myself think, which was a relief back then. I was teased a lot Mr. Fire,” I said quietly, looking at my hands, “and Chapel was way for me to meditate, to think about something else other than the bullying, the pain in my life.”

  Andrew nodded thoughtfully then.

  “I see,” he said slowly. “I see.”

  But I pressed on. Because even atheism is fine, but I wanted him to have respect for others’ beliefs. I wanted him to respect my beliefs, to not scoff and throw them out the window like they were nothing.

  “How about you?” I asked slowly. “What about you, Mr. Fire?”

  And the big man leaned backwards, stretching languorously like a big cat.

  “Well honey, it’s not often that I have a woman asking about my religious beliefs,” he said with a rumble. “More often, they’re asking about jewelry or concert tickets, so this is quite a change. But yes,” he said, growing serious again, his expression solemn. “I am a spiritual man. I haven’t been to church in god knows how long,” he said wryly, “It’s been so long since I worshipped formally. But that’s the thing,” he said, looking at me seriously once more. “Even though I don’t worship formally, I do respect religion. I respect all faiths, all beliefs, and in no way would I denigrate anyone else’s convictions.”

  And I took a deep breath then, exhaling with a sigh, relief washing over me. Because I’d been holding my breath without knowing it, sitting on the edge of my chair, slightly tense without being aware of how much his answer meant to me. On the one hand, it shouldn’t have. I was a girl here for a week, and he’d bought my body, not my soul. What he worshipped, what I worshipped, what we thought about anything for that matter, really didn’t matter. We were here for a bacchanal, to enjoy each other’s bodies, or more accurately, for him to enjoy mine.

  But somehow, things had taken a turn. Because instead of spending hours in bed, breaking only to eat and shower, instead we were sitting in a library right now, of all places, talking about our spiritual beliefs, our wider views of the world. And it meant a lot to me. I’d been afraid for some reason, afraid that his status as a billionaire, that the endless chase for money had made Andrew into a soulless monster, that all he cared about was cold, hard cash, making greenbacks off even the most holy items.

  But it wasn’t like that, and I was relieved. Despite his domineering ways, despite the fact that he was rich as Midas, everything he touched turning to gold, the big man still had humility and a sense of self. The Bible was more to him than a get rich scheme. It was still special, for lack of a better world, a volume imbued with history and culture, and not only that, but Mr. Fire respected other beliefs as well, they were just as legitimate, just as valid.
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br />   So I shot him a dazzling smile then.

  “I’m glad,” I murmured softly. “I’m so glad.”

  And his big hand caught my chin, turning my face towards him, those blue eyes seizing mine.

  “So glad of what?” he rumbled, voice casual although that gaze pierced me to the heart.

  “So glad that you’re you,” I finished in a rush, cheeks going hot. “I guess I’m just happy,” I said in a small, shy voice, shooting him another smile. “I never expected it, but I’m happy.”

  And the big man let out another laugh, this one real, coming deep from his belly.

  “Little girl, if talking about Bibles is what makes you happy, then I’m happy to do it any time,” he said with a grin. “Just ask and we can talk about anything.”

  And these words rang in my mind now, as I stood before the locker room. They washed over me, imbuing me with warmth so that I radiated happiness from within, practically glowing, alone in the hallway. Mr. Fire had somehow opened the doors in my heart, he’d penetrated into my deepest recesses, and I felt comfortable with him. I felt comfortable telling the big man my desires, my darkest fears, my quirkiest thoughts, the weird things that made me me. So with another breath, I stepped into the women’s locker room. Fear of swimming was one thing … but I knew with Mr. Fire’s help, I could conquer it all.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Andrew

  Somehow the girl’s wormed her way into my heart. Against all odds, the curvy brunette has found a way to penetrate my shields, the hardness I’ve built up after decades in the business world, decades as an asshole, a jerk, a man who used women, discarding their bodies after I was done.

  And for it to be Annie is even crazier. First, I bought the girl. There was no expectation that this was going to be anything other than a series of hard fucks. Oh yeah, the whole premise was that I owned her body now, that for one sensuous week, I’d take her every which way, every fucking hour, on the hour, penetrating that sweetness. But shit, I haven’t even done that. I’ve just played with her, lusted after those curves, petted and toyed, but I haven’t actually run my dick deep. What the fuck is wrong with me?