Daddy's Dirty Secret

Two.

Jace

I’d say I was doing my best to finish this new custom tub. Most people would agree, except I know I’m stalling. Usually, when Natalee asks me to get started on a new project, I go ahead and rush through it, since most plans come alive in my head instantly. My head and my hands? A well-oiled machine. But I can’t help but take much longer on this.

What can I say? It’s full-blown summer in Arizona, and I have a real-life s*x doll lounging around my backyard, her perfect body glistening with sweat from the blistering heat, her luscious platinum locks wet, sticking to her back as she emerges from the pool in that minuscule black bikini.

Honestly, I should sue the company that made that thing. It’s nothing but scraps of spandex held together by the thinnest of straps. I wonder how on earth it’s possible for those itty bitty triangles to support the best rack I’ve ever seen in my life. Yes, that includes my wife’s rack. Not that I’ve seen that up close and personal in a few weeks. Catalina’s collection of bathing suits surely will be the end of me if she keeps showing up in them while I’m operating heavy machinery in the backyard.

It’s been hours, but she still hasn’t moved from her spot on the lounger, her back to the house, face down, eyes behind sunglasses while scanning pages of fashion magazines when she’s not dipping her toes into the shallow end of the pool, luscious ass jiggling with every step she takes.

Life isn’t fair, but I really shouldn’t be looking at the girl this way. I’m married, for God’s sake. To her f*****g mother. Her arrogant, selfish, egomaniac of a mother. It’s odd that someone so cold gave birth to the embodiment of pure perfection. It’s like Snow White and the Evil Queen personified. With less bloodshed, of course.

I watch her disappear into the kitchen, my c**k rock solid against the zipper of these way-too-hot shorts after our little exchange. Catalina Bryce calling me Daddy? f**k… I almost bent her over that chair, snagged those cheeky bikini bottoms to the side, and f****d her half into the ground.

I’m royally screwed. But little Cat doesn’t have to know that. She’s got bigger fish to fry than keeping tabs on who’s lusting after her. Such as getting a new job, a new apartment, or maybe even a new boyfriend. Because Cat’s lust list? I bet it’s endless and she’s got every guy on campus wrapped around her little finger.

God, what I wouldn’t do to be a couple decades younger, to do college all over again in her world.

There’s no trace of Catalina when I head inside, only the faint scent of chlorine and fresh roses, which tells me she was here moments before.

I spot a takeout menu on the kitchen island, Cat’s favorite one on top, phone alongside the flyer.

Emergency at the office. Gonna be a late night.

That’s all I got from Natalee, so I’m guessing she’s having dinner delivered for her and the team. I wonder which psycho-bride of hers is having a crisis now.

I’m drenched and sticky with sweat, so I make it to the first floor, craving a cold, cold shower. Only I pass Cat’s room, the one she used to spend holidays in when she was off campus, but the one that she resides in a bit more permanently since her latest beau kicked her to the curb. She’s a bit naive that way, always thinking the next boy might be the man she’ll wake up to every morning for the rest of her life. It’s safe to say that thought makes me want to bash my head into the wall, and that the people who gossip about my baby girl would soon follow.

Sure, Catalina’s got a reputation. A rather promiscuous one, if I have to believe Natalee. But I don’t know all the details, nor do I need to know all the f*****g details. I’ve been in Cat and Natalee’s life since she was seventeen, three years ago. And there’s been enough screaming and fights between those two for an entire lifetime. Nat and Cat? Not exactly friends. I know Catalina is living here because she’s run out of other options right now.

No boyfriend, and her best friend is studying abroad in Sweden. Her father lives in Portugal… Poor thing is all alone.

And it appears, so am I. Most nights, anyway. And weekends. And almost the entire wedding season. I'm married, so I wouldn’t be alone anymore. Turns out this marriage is lonelier than I ever was in my single life.

Maybe it’s a good thing, Cat moving in.

But as I pass her door, hearing her shower run as she sings along to some sultry pop song, I can’t do anything but stand there and imagine her strong, sinful body under the stream of water, no bathing suit in sight. I can almost feel the way her hard n*****s poke against my chest when I pull her against me and hear the way she gasps breathlessly when I spear her on my c**k from behind.

Christ. It’s not a good thing she moved in.

It’s f*****g torture. And I’ll go to f*****g hell if I touch her.